


play ball!

by spacepuck



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - Sports, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, if you've seen the sandlot you know the majority of the plot hah, kind of lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacepuck/pseuds/spacepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dave moves to Washington, he expects to spend the summer alone in his room until school starts. But when he stumbles on the sandlot, he discovers a baseball team needing one more player. He quickly gets dragged into the mix, but there's just one problem: he knows absolute dicksquat about the game.</p><p>Luckily, John, the high school's best baseball player, swoops in to help. </p><p>(this is basically a sandlot/baseball au. happy summer!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the sandlot

**Author's Note:**

> look what i finally started!
> 
> i've been wanting to write a johndave fic for a while, specifically this one. now that summer's in full swing, i thought it would only be appropriate to start this sweet sandlot au. hope you all enjoy :-)
> 
> hmu if you want! puckspace.tumblr.com

Bro never made it entirely clear to you why you were moving from the comfortable hell-heat of Texas all the way up into the soggy left corner of the U.S. of A., but then again, he never says much at all. He broke the news to you with a short “pack your shit up” and an armful of stacked boxes shoved into your hands. He hardly gave any hint of where the two of you were going until you were in the passenger seat of the U-Haul. Even now, as the two of you unload the last of the boxes into the house, he silently nods in the direction of a neighbor saying hello rather than saying anything in return. 

He’s a man of few words. You respect that. Still, suburban Washington life doesn’t seem like it’ll be as secluded as having the entire upper portion of an old apartment to yourselves. 

The middle of June in Washington is nothing short of grey, humid, and a touch chilly. You had just been getting comfortable in the ninety degree southern heat with the sun baring its life and soul to your window every morning, but your brother ripped you from Texas’ dead hands before you could add in your two cents on the matter. Now, as you settle on a throne of boxes in your new bedroom, you watch as the chill makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

The house echoes when you so much as take a few heavy steps. Even after you and Bro finish unpacking most of your things, the place is woefully empty. While the apartment seemed to be near splitting with all the shit you guys crammed into it, everything fit comfortably here with room to spare. Still, Bro seems happy, in his quiet aura kinda way, to have his own room instead of having to crash in the living room. 

In the following days, you don’t see much of the suburbs. While Bro goes out to finish some last-minute moving business, you stay in your room, settled at your mixing table or on your bed with your laptop. Sure, you would go out and dazzle the town with your cool new-kid vibes, but you’ve got shit to do. You lost enough time on the move up, and your followers must be hungry for some updates. You even update a little more than usual just to give them an extra taste, give them a little bit of a summer surprise. But not too much—gotta leave them begging for more, clambering all over your dick just to bribe you, but no way man, you do your own thing, play by your own rules. These bitches have nothing on Dave Strider, the guy with a blog. 

But you ready some posts and pieces for the near future, just to be prepared. 

It’s when you’re in the middle of preparing a new comic that you suddenly see Bro leaning into your doorframe, casting his quiet stare over you until you finally give in and look at him. 

“What?” you ask.

He juts a thumb over his shoulder. “Get out of the house, bro.”

“Why? Did you start a fire or something?”

“I’m not letting you hole yourself up in here all summer.”

You roll your eyes. “Why, you’re afraid I’m going to rot away? Not going to get enough vitamin D and get all mopey? Because I don’t know if you noticed, but the sun is kind of afraid of Washington. Like, straight up avoids touching this side of the country like the state’s going to beat it up for its lunch money.”

He steps into the room and tugs the blinds away from your windows. You squint at the sun pouring through, despite your shades. 

“Alright, fair enough, the sun’s getting a little braver nowadays, but Bro, you know it’s going to puss out and it’ll rain in like ten minutes—”

“Dave. I don’t give a shit.” He walks over to you and closes the laptop in your lap, picking it up and putting it on your desk. “You could get stuck out in a storm for all I care, just get out of the house for ten goddamn minutes.”

You sigh, tilting your head back to stretch your neck. “Why?”

“Because I want you out of my hair.” He remains in your line of sight, arms crossed loosely as he stares you down. “And maybe you should make friends or some shit so your circle of people to annoy isn’t contained in this house.”

You raise your brow at that as you drop your head to look at him. “Why do you give a shit if I make friends or not?”

“I don’t, but if that’s what it takes, then whatever. So be it.”

He reaches over and tousles your hair roughly, muttering “now beat it, kid” before leaving. Though you grumble at your mussed hair, you figure he’ll do worse if you don’t get up and leave. So you shove on your sneakers and shrug a hoodie over you before opening the window and stepping out onto the balcony. After some swinging around on tree branches, you let yourself land on the sidewalk in front of your house. 

You pull out your phone to check the time. He said ten minutes, he’ll get ten minutes. 

A single drop of rain on the screen prompts you to pull your hood over your head before you wander.

The streets are quiet as you walk around. You’d expect some kids to be playing out in front yards or at least a divorcing couple screaming at each other in the supposed privacy of their home, but there’s little more than just the soft patter of raindrop hitting the trees. You’re not used to this whole suburban business yet—you almost miss the treeless, car-congested streets of home where the sun wasn’t afraid to show face for twelve hours straight. You still can’t wrap your mind around the fact that it’ll be rare to see the summer here pop above eighty degrees. 

You eventually reach the end of the gridded streets, but you figure it’s a safe bet to just keep walking straight. No use getting yourself lost, no matter how stupid it sounds to get lost in a gridded neighborhood. You’re a city boy. You know how to handle rows of identical buildings. You’ll probably be able to get yourself back home, no sweat. 

The bend in the road leads you to the first inkling of noise that isn’t rain. There’s a distant _thunk_ , voices overlapping one another, some laughter, some cursing. While you would avoid this on any other occasion, the road brings you directly to the noise, shrouded only by tall dead bushes entangled in a tall wire fence. 

“Captor, you dumb fuck, he was right there!”

“Oh sorry Vriska, maybe I would have had a fraction of a chance of taking him out if you hadn’t thrown it to _thecond bathe!_ ”

You follow the fence for a while until you find a gaping hole in the thing, giving way to a foot-damaged path leading into the field. When the arguing doesn’t fade off, you crouch slightly to peer through the gap—you might as well satiate your curiosities before heading home.

The rain droplets on your shades don’t make the job much easier, but you can still see a couple of people in your line of sight. You catch a girl with long black hair throwing an angry finger up at the guy farther off before readying her stance again. She punches the dark brown mitt in her right hand. 

There’s silence again before another clear _thunk_ splits the air, and the voices come back in full alert. The girl runs to snatch the ball before practically whipping it to another person—a tall girl, green scarf over her hair—as a tall guy sprints into your line of vision. You gather that he has dark hair and is wearing a blue shirt before he’s gone, much to the anger of the girl nearest you. 

You stand as the words of encouragement and words of disdain pile over each other again. Your time’s up here, anyway; as you check your phone, your ten minutes were up seven minutes ago. 

It’s when you begin to saunter off that the gate rattles beside you, and you stop just enough to hear a new voice, saying, 

“No, no, Rose is right, there’s someone else lurking around here.”

“What, can you _smell_ them, Terezi?”

“No shit, dummy.”

You begin to walk again, a touch faster than normal but not fast enough that people would think you were purposefully walking fast because that’s not the first impression you want to give to anyone in this place, but the gate rattles again behind you as one of them calls out.

“Hey, you!”

Christ. 

You stop walking, reluctant, turning on your heel to face another girl. Short, messy hair, weird fucking glasses, zero sense of color coordination. She plants a mitted hand on her hip. 

“Are you having fun spying on us?”

You shrug. God, you really didn’t want to run into anyone today. “Not any more fun than, you know, unclogging my ears or shoving a knife into an electrical socket. A pretty standard level of fun to put down in the books, maybe a solid level two.” 

“My favorite past-times.” She grins, shifting her weight. “But no spying allowed, buddy. You’re either in the game or you’re out.”

“Solid.” You turn again, ready to find your way home now, until another voice pokes out. 

“Who’s that?”

“No one, John. Just a spy.”

“What, you mean he’s Russian?”

She laughs, raspy and short. “No, he’s—”

“Because he sure is _Russian_ away.”

You practically hear the collective groan waft straight into you, directly from the other side of the fence, only telling you that all of them gathered to get a look at the new kid in town. Yep. You’re outta here. No matter how it’s twisted, being the new kid immediately slides you down on the cool ladder a couple rungs.

But you can hardly take another three steps until pun-boy tries stopping you with a “wait!” and then _actually_ stops you by putting his hand on your shoulder. 

“Wait, wait, ignore Terezi, she’s just being funny—kinda—she’s, y’know, a stickler for privatizing fun I guess.” 

Under no control of your own, you turn to face the guy, keeping your face straight. You guess he’s the one that bolted before, if not for the dark hair and blue shirt, then for the fact that he’s practically all leg. He easily towers a couple inches over you, emphasized by him having to look down a little to grin at you. 

“Are you new here? I’ve never seen you around before.”

“What, do you know every single face around here? Because that would almost be impressive.”

“Nah, I just don’t know how many of the hail-Mary parents around here let their kids put holes in their ears.”

You almost reach up to thumb the small plugs in your earlobes, but you resist. 

“Not to kill your vibe, but everyone has holes in their ears. Unless Washington is actually just a colony of aliens or the government’s way of hiding the malformed. I guess the huge fence around the border was a sign to turn back, but man, I just didn’t listen.”

“So you are new!”

Alright, you’ll admit, you let that slip way too soon. But you shrug, letting your eyes wander over the rest of the group. “Never said that. Just know the particulars about the state I live in, both physically and in the transcendental realm. Shit’s important, you know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Where are you from?”

“Jesus Christ, Egbert, could we skip the goddamn personals and get back to the fucking game?” The stockier member of the group glares at you before glaring harder at Egbert here, mask shoved to the top of his hair. “Who gives a shit where this guy came from? He can hail from the asslicking underside of planet fucking Jupiter for all I care, the point is he’s gone and interrupted the game and sent this whole arrangement into a tizzy.”

“Oh, shut up, you crabby shit. John’s just trying to make friends!” Round-glasses girl comes to your defense, smacking the shorter guy upside the head. 

John turns back to back you. “Sorry about him—but, uh, you can play with us, you know! We only have eight on the team anyway, and you’d make nine. I have an extra mitt back on the field that you can borrow.”

The words are falling from you before you can even think, and you’re saying “sure, yeah, I’m not called ‘Dave Pro-Baseball Star Strider’ for nothing, I once hit a ball so hard it killed a guy, there was a lawsuit and everything but they couldn’t prove it was me so I slid out of that shit like a baby in the delivery room” while John is leading you through the hole in the fence to the field, following the rest of the team inside. 

“Alright, Dave Strider, I trust you.” 

\--

Let’s start by saying that going outside is a learning experience. 

Boy, golly-gee, fuck, you are learning that you don’t know dick about baseball. And it’s not only you, but everyone else on the team is quickly coming to terms that you have no idea what you’re doing. 

“Strider, you were supposed to throw it to second—”

“I think you can plainly see that that’s exactly what I did.”

“No. What you threw it to was the tree behind first. You made Rose actually move to make a valiant effort to save the game which, to be fair, is impressive in and of itself, but still hugely unhelpful here.”

Terezi’s shaking her head at you, and you shrug, looking at the tree that you supposedly threw to. “Probably some squirrels in there that are rabid baseball fans. Can’t leave them out of the loop; that would break their little squirrel hearts.”

“Pretty sure they’re just plain rabid, Strider.”

You hear Karkat screaming as Sollux bounds over home plate. 

“Strider, how on god’s green goddamn earth did you fuck up _that badly?_ You actually just made the worst batter on this shit-for-brains team score! For the first time ever, I’m pretty sure! Sollux, go show your undying gratitude to your knight in shining armor for crouching down low enough for you to step up onto his back and raise your hands into the realms of dignity!” 

Sollux looks over at you with a smirk from the sidelines, picking up his thrown bat to rest it on his shoulder. 

“Thanks, Dave. You saved my ass from getting an earful from the poster boy of this _thit-for-brainth_ team.” He sneers at Karkat, at which point Karkat jumps from his crouching position, tossing his mask off.

“Captor, wipe that piss-poor excuse of a smile off before I do it for you!” 

“Oh, _pleathe_ , you can’t even reach all the way up here—”

You crouch into the grass, watching Karkat throw his tantrum from afar. Jade smacks her mitt down in aggravation before storming up to yell at Karkat herself. Terezi laughs, wading off to talk to Vriska and leaving you to defend…what was it? Left field? Who cares, you’re all in a field. 

You pluck a couple of dandelions from under your sneakers. John comes into your peripheral, his mitt tucked under his arm. 

“God, he always does this,” he mutters, glaring at Karkat. Jade has him partially subdued, holding him back by his thick shoulders. “But, dude, you kind of did give Sollux a free pass.” 

You look up at him. “Maybe Sollux is a better player than you all give him credit for.”

“I mean, he can run pretty fast, but that hit practically landed in your hands.” He looks around a moment before crouching beside you. He curls an index finger towards himself a couple of times, meaning to draw you slightly closer but only scooting closer himself. His voice drops to a soft mutter. “Dave, have you ever played baseball before?”

“Obviously. I told you, they called me a pro back home.”

His face falls. “They must really suck wherever you come from. Come on, you’re kind of terrible.”

“Not true.”

“Dave, tell me what a fly ball is.”

“Clearly the mother nest of all flies. They ball up to keep each other cozy but also so that they can hit their target in the most monstrous way possible—”

“Holy shit, alright. Just tell me what a shortstop does, then.”

“They stop short of achieving their real goals and get a bad rep for it, which I think is shameful. What’s a guy gotta do just to live his life the way it pans out by itself—”

He holds his hands up to silence you. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or you actually have no idea what I’m talking about. But I’m going to assume that you have no idea what I’m talking about, so I’m making a proposition.”

“John, isn’t it a bit early in this relationship to propose? I’m flattered, but we’ve only known each other for an hour.” 

“No dude, a proposition. You, me, we get down to business here at the sandlot tomorrow at noon. I teach you all the basics without the rest of these knucklefucks around to ruin everything.”

He juts a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rest of the team still trying to settle down. But it only looks as if they’ve created a new argument, complete with pushing and shoving. 

You stare at him through your shades, and he stares back with his bright baby blues, eagerly awaiting your response. 

“Alright, I guess I could show you a thing or two about real baseball.”

He rolls his eyes, but his grin widens as he sticks his hand out to you. “Deal?”

“Deal.” You grab his hand, only to get a shock sent straight up your arm. You’re almost embarrassed at how much you jump in response, even feeling your face break its stoic façade. “Christ!”

He sits back on his heels, laughing and holding up his hand with the prank buzzer in it. “Never trust a handshake blindly, Dave!”

After shaking out your hand, you deliver a punch to his shoulder. But he only laughs more, falling back onto his rear from the force. 

In spite of yourself, you smirk. 

\--

When the last light of day finally sinks behind the trees, you give a small two-finger salute to the group before slipping out the hole in the fence. You check your phone—it’s just past eight p.m. No calls, no texts. You wonder if Bro even noticed that you left (but Bro, in one way or another, knows most things, so you suppose he might be getting lonely.)

You wander back the way you came as best you can. As the sky darkens further, you find yourself squinting at the street signs through your shades. What street did you live on again? 270th? 

…Alright, maybe you’re an idiot and forgot your own address, but you’re not texting Bro to ask what it is. Not only is that humiliating by itself, but he’d easily send you in the opposite direction. 

You wander a little further, passing 266th, 267th – at the corner of 267th, you see John at his front door, bat resting over his shoulder as he pats down his pockets with his free hand. When he looks up, looking exasperated, he catches you walking past. 

“Dave!” He waves, and you start to raise a hand back as he bounds over to you, which really just seems to be his normal walking pace. 

“Long time, no see, Egbert.”

“Aw, you missed me. Do you live in this neighborhood, or are you putting on the wandering lost puppy thing to get attention?” 

“Yeah, I live around here.” 

“Well,” he says, looking back over at his house, “I got locked out. Guess tonight’s a late night for my dad. Mind if I wander home with you?”

You quirk a brow at him. “And you say I’m the lost puppy. You’re like the dog that has no sense of direction and has been missing for three months.” The two of you start walking, your hands shoved into your hoodie pocket. “Your family misses you dearly, but they know that there’s no hope for you. So you just paw at people’s front doors hoping that someone will take you in and throw you a bone.”

“Wha—”

“Meanwhile, your real family is in the process of adopting a new dog to fill the void in their hearts, but gosh, you really are getting used to getting scraps in this neighborhood. You become the town mascot: John, the Little Dog That Could.”

He’s laughing, shoving your arm a little. “Fuck you, a family would take me in in a heartbeat. I’m just too precious.” 

“Does your dad tell you that?”

You wander for a while longer before John stops walking. You look back at him, but it’s gotten dark fast so you squint to catch his face. He’s looking down at his phone, then back up at you. 

“Dave, do you not know where your house is? We’ve just been wandering.”

“John, I know you’ve taken me under your wing like you’re the big fifth grader showing my kindergarten ass around the school, but you don’t need to simultaneously take me for an idiot. Of course I know where I live.”

He crosses his arms. “Alright then, what’s your address? My dad’s wondering where I am, but I’m not going to leave you stranded if you don’t know where you’re going. Not because I’m being nice, but there are bears in these woods.”

“Sounds pretty nice to me.”

“Dave—”

A short _thwip_ slices the air, and John jumps back at the shuriken digging into the grass at your feet. You look up, only to see Bro leaning out of his bedroom window on the second floor, arms crossed on the windowsill. 

You heave a sigh, leaning down to pull the throwing star out of the dirt. “Bro, that wasn’t cool,” you call up to him. John stands at your side, staring up at your brother. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. 

“Young man, it’s way past your bedtime. What are you doing out so late?” Bro calls back down to you. You roll your eyes. 

“Sorry, _padre_ , I guess time just got away from me.”

He looks at John, then back at you. You gesture to the astounded teen at your side.

“Bro, this is John. John, Bro,” you say, gesturing back to Bro. 

“Sup,” Bro offers.

John gives a small wave. “Hi, Mr. Strider.” 

You turn to him. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, dude. My keeper awaits.”

He smiles a little. “Yeah, I gotta head back—oh wait!” 

You stare as he fiddles with his phone for a moment for shoving it in your hands. “Put your number in! I don’t want to resort to throwing rocks at your window or something.”

You do, and once you finally say your goodbyes you step inside, tossing the shuriken in Bro’s general direction. He’s come down to sit on the futon to watch a movie, and he idly pats the spot beside him. 

As you sit, he tilts his head from side to side, popping his neck. “Didn’t think you’d be out until dark, kid.”

“Are you trying to say you were worried about me? Because that’s not a good look on you.”

“No, I’m trying to say that when I said ten minutes, I expected nine.” 

“Ye of little faith,” you say. He stops talking, and you suddenly feel the short buzz of your phone in your pocket. You look down as you pull it out, seeing a number you don’t recognize.

RECEIVED: dave! it’s john!


	2. batting practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some mood music: [nice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3qVwAr4zNE) & [wow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tb0Gq4Gf9Wg)

It was a miracle and a half that John expected you to get out of bed before noon, but there you were at the sandlot at noon-oh-seven, crawling through the hole in the fence in your hoodie and jeans. John’s already on the field—the dweeb had probably been there for an hour already— swinging a bat around idly in one hand and clutching his phone in the other. Before he can send you a harrowing text asking for your whereabouts, he looks up and spots you.

“Dave! You’re late!”

You meet up with him at the opposite end of the field, hands shoved deep into your hoodie pockets. “Pacific Time is an unyielding bitch, Egbert. Besides, I still see a twelve on my clock, which means I’m not as fashionably late as I intended to be.”

“You really are a man of good first impressions, aren’t you?”

He turns to settle his bat against the gate behind home plate, joining a spare and a black duffle bag at his feet. From the bag he pulls out two gloves and a ball, tossing the ball in his hand a couple times as he turns to face you again. 

“Well, let’s get down to business! We’ll start with throwing and catching first, since you’ll probably be in the outfield like yesterday. I already know you can throw pretty far but geez, you have no aim.” He passes a glove to you. “Or you just have no idea what you’re doing.”

You slip the glove onto your hand, looking at him as he starts to wander off to the supposed outfield. 

“I told you man, I have some superb knowledge of baseball up my sleeve.” You start to trail behind him as you realize he expects you to follow. “I know about all the bases.”

He turns and stops, underhand tossing the ball to you. Instinctively, you grab it with your bare dominant hand. 

“Get used to catching it with the glove, dude. And _everyone_ knows the bases. _Fetuses_ know the bases.” He gestures behind you at the empty infield. 

You drop the ball into your glove and pick it back up, tossing it a couple times between your hands to get used to the feeling. 

“If you think a fetus knows that scoring a homerun means doing the nasty-nasty, then I’m scared to be in Washington. Babies don’t need to know about that stuff. Babies don’t even know what they are, you know? Didn’t know that the daycares up here had comprehensive sex-ed programs, but I guess the north really is different. Really progressive and shit.”

He shoves his bare hand against his face with a groan. “Oh my god. Okay, you know what, let’s just get down to catching and throwing. You have the ball, so.”

He readies his mitt and you turn the ball in your hand. Though you throw it overhand this time—and watch it sail over his head and far behind—you can feel a dull pang of soreness in your upper arm. 

It was almost as if Bro knew that you actually planned on using your limbs today. He had unexpectedly pounced on you while you were snooping through some of the unopened boxes in one of the unnamed rooms in the house, and he did a number on you as usual. You figure he’s hiding something that you were near spotting, or, more likely, he just wasn’t letting you get too comfortable in your new home. But you’ll check the room again later, if only because the possibility of getting on his nerves truly tickles you pink. 

John returns with the ball while you knead your arm slightly through your sleeve. 

“Jesus, dude, you don’t need to throw that hard when we’re this close.” He tosses the ball to you and you awkwardly cradle it with the glove this time, which makes him grin. “Try again, but aim better and use less force. Try not to blow my head off.”

You try again, and it’s a bit of a reach above him but he grabs it. He smiles. 

The two of you go at it for a while, John pacing back to widen the distance after every few throws, waiting until your aim is where he wants it to be. It’s a generally wordless time, aside from him calling over to tell you where to aim. Once his back is nearly flush with the fence, you throw it to him until he’s happy, though at last your throw dips and bounces against the ground. He jogs back to you after scooping the ball from the ground for the last time.

“Well, good to know you can throw long distance _and_ sort-of aim now,” he says, planting his mitt on his hip. “Now, get into left field—no, not where you were yesterday, that was right field—and I’ll go around telling you where to throw. Got it?”

You nod, and he jogs off while you wander out to take your position. 

“Alright Dave,” he says, and he’s off to your left in the outfield, “this is center field. Now, this is usually Vriska’s position, but ignore the fact that’s she’s shorter than me. She’ll learn to fly if she has to to get the ball.” 

You remember; the girl had practically climbed up the fence single-handed and dove so many times just to get the ball you wondered how her teeth weren’t grass-stained. You throw it to him, and he continues on as he catches it. 

“Just be careful and keep an eye on her if she has to throw it to you.” He throws the ball back to you as he closes the distance again, gesturing to third base. “Like, say there’s someone going for third or for home, and she has the ball. She _could_ just throw it to third—Sollux, usually—but it’s a bit of a reach for her, since she doesn’t have the wingspan that we do. So even though she’s stubborn, she’s smart. She knows that she’ll have to throw it to you or to second—that’s Kanaya—to clear the distance, since you guys are closer to third than she is.”

He puts a hand on your sore shoulder, and you blink down at him, though he can’t see it. 

“You saw her yesterday. She throws hard, and she throws _fast._ Just be ready.” He removes his hand from you, looking back at the infield. “Now, usually a full roster would also have a shortstop, who’s kind of like a lone-ranger kind of deal.” He waves his glove vaguely at the area between second and third. “Since most batters bat right, most hits pull more to the left side of the field, and a shortstop kind of alleviates the work for left field, second, and third.” 

“So, shortstop’s basically playing babysitter.” He looks at you, brow raised. “You know, taking all the baby balls and making sure they’re safe and shit while the parents kind of want their kid back, but are also kind of happy that they can chill out without having to worry if baby ball’s got a split stitch or is, I dunno, split in half and murdered by brute force. Not mom and pop’s deal anymore, babysitter shortstop’s got it all taken care of.” 

He pulls a confused face for a moment before chuckling under his breath. “I mean, if that’s what helps you remember it, then yeah, shortstop plays babysitter. Except we usually don’t have one, or I sometimes just double as left field and shortstop when I’m not batting. And before you came along, we had to just have one person in right-center instead of one in center and one in right field since, you know, someone’s gotta be batting for there to be a game.” 

“So, by appointing me as caretaker of left field, are you asking me to also do shortstop?”

“What? Oh, no,” he says quickly, raising his hands to stop your thoughts. “I mean, you’ll have to run around a bit as a left-fielder anyway, but shortstops are usually all over the place. Like, they’re usually the most defensive players on the team—need quick reflexes for double plays, need to be super aware of everything that’s going on and act quick on runners, all that stuff. It’s pretty hard!” 

You shrug. “No idea what the hell a double play is, but I’m all full of reflexes and speed. Agile like a cat slinking through an alley in the night, man.”

“It’s where you get two runners out in one play.” He waves a dismissive hand. “But we always just have one runner going since we don’t have enough people for two full teams, so you don’t have to worry about it. Although, I guess I should tell the gang that we should practice them anyway. I need the practice.”

He shrugs his words off, then looks at you, full grin. “But hey, if you want to try being shortstop, be my guest, but don’t be surprised if there’s a certain few loud mouths that yell about it if you’re not as good as you promise. Now, let’s finish with throwing and catching practice so we can see if you can hit anything.”

\--

You swing again, and the ball rattles the gate behind you, the bat swishing emptily over the plate for the tenth time. 

“Well,” John says from his position at the pitcher’s mound, snatching the ball from the air when you toss it back at him, “guess we found your Achilles’ heel. You can’t hit anything!” He throws the ball idly up in the air as you peel off your hoodie, finally feeling the heat of frustration. 

“Maybe you’re just a shitty pitcher,” you call back. 

“Maybe _you_ should ditch the shades. They’re probably screwing you over.”

“No can do.”

“Why not?”

“Because ocular albinism is a fickle twat that refuses to let me enjoy most types of light sources. If anything, taking my shades away would render me useless. Just send me home for low performance, coach, lock me up so no one has to see this shameful mug play ever again.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not sending you back.” He finally lets the ball drop and settle into his glove as he looks at you. “Is being melodramatic a side effect of albinism?”

“I’m not melodramatic, I’m just mellow.” 

“Sure, yeah, you’re just mellow yellow over there. How bad is it?”

You rest your weight on the bat as you pin it to the dirt. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, John, and I don’t like pointing out disabilities because, you know, handicapable not handicapped, but…John, I’m blind.”

“Dave,” he whines, exasperated. You shrug.

“It’s pretty mild. Some people get fucked over with double vision and zero depth perception. I can see pretty fine, but I’ll admit, like a true and blue American citizen about to get harangued by the justice system, that my depth perception might be a little wonk-sided.”

You had learned about this wonk-sided depth perception a while ago, when you would strife with Bro and misjudge some of his strikes, and then equally misjudge your strikes back. You spent a lot more time learning to defend yourself from the blows rather than landing the hits yourself—but not always succeeding in defense, as helpfully reminded by your sore arm. With your arms now bare, you can see the bruise blooming over your skin.

“Your depth perception can’t be that bad if you can catch the ball that well. But I guess it might be throwing you off your game.” He grins. “Or maybe you just plain suck at batting!”

“Again, Egbert—entertain the idea that _you’re_ the one that can’t dance this tango. The other girl seems to be a way better pitcher than you.”

“Jade?” He laughs, finally giving up the pitcher’s mound and coming closer. “Jade would _destroy_ you, dude. Trust me, I’m pitching just fine, but she’s got the art of pitching almost down to a T.” He takes off his glove and tucks it under his arm, reaching up to readjust his cap as the sun bears down heavier over the field. 

“You probably couldn’t see very well from the outfield, but she throws stupid hard. Probably gets up to at least ninety with her fastballs. Karkat’s lucky he has thick bones, or he’d be in a permanent body cast. Her arm would put yours to shame.”

“I’ve got a pretty fantastic looking arm, though,” you say, and you flex the appendage for him. “Look at that, just leaping out to say hello.”

He glances at your bicep before looking back up at you. “It’s not a Jade Harley arm, that’s for sure. She’s been learning to pitch for baseball _and_ softball since she was like, three. You’ve been plain _learning_ about baseball for—” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket to look at the time. “About two hours. Which reminds me, the rest of the gang should be here soon. I told them to meet up here at two-thirty.”

“Is our date over? Because I’ve gotta say, I’m swooning over here, really about to fall down the front steps of my white country mansion from a fainting spell. You really know how to treat a lady, Egbert.”

“I’m just so chivalrous. The ladies like a guy who can teach them sports.”

Slowly, the others wade into the field. Jade and Karkat make themselves known first, if only for Jade’s excited greetings to John and Karkat’s less-than enthused look at you.

“Didn’t know we were putting on a show today, John, or else I would have rallied the whole damn town to spectate,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“He’s not spectating, dumbass. He’s playing.”

Karkat lets out a sharp, curt laugh, and you hear Jade trying to subdue a giggle behind her hand. “You’re shitting me, right? What, is he going to sit on his ass playing with dandelions again while Terezi works overtime just to save him from some extraordinary embarrassment? Yeah fucking right!”

“He’s got a point—no offense, Dave.” Jade looks at you with little reassurance, then back to John. She drops her voice to mutter to him, “I mean, he can’t catch or throw, John. Like, Terezi’s _blind_ and still plays pretty well.”

John waves her and Karkat away, shushing them. “First of all, she’s only like, half blind or whatever. Besides, _we’ve,_ ” he gestures to you, “been practicing since noon. Trust me, he can catch and throw now.” He plants his hands on his hips, smiling smugly at them. “I’m putting him in left field.”

“What? _Why?_ ” Karkat’s face turns completely red as he throws his arms out in frustration. Even Jade raises her brows, glancing at you. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of shit from you, but this must be the dumbest fucking decision you’ve ever made. Keep in mind that I was _there,_ for better or for worse, in the godforsaken flesh, when you thought it would be ingenious to sabotage the Kentwood team, and I watched your sorry pitiful ass get called in so the coach could _suspend you_ for five games! _This_ is worse!”

John’s smile quickly fades and he shoves Karkat’s shoulder, cheeks flushing. “It was a prank and they’re a bunch of babies anyway! Let’s leave the past in the past, alright?”

You cross your arms, smirking a little. “Wow, John, did you kill someone?”

“This has nothing to do with you, Strider!” Karkat snaps. Jade backhands his shoulder lightly, which still makes him yelp a curse at her. 

“You’re so rude, Karkat! Geez.” She then looks at you, mirroring your crossed arms and doing you the service of a glance-over. “I think you can prove it yourself whether or not you can play. If John says you can throw and catch, then I trust him!” 

You nod at her. “Thanks for pumping some Disney-style hope straight into my veins. I’m going to bippity-boppity-boop the ball all over the damn place.” You place your hand over your heart and say, sagely, “I won’t let you down.”

She laughs. “Then go prove it!” As she waves you off to get to your spot, she looks back to Karkat, who you can feel glaring daggers into your spine as you retreat. “Kar, get your gear on so we can practice before everyone else gets here! My changeup’s been getting sloppy.” 

\--

“You got him out, _Thrider_ , just throw the ball back to Jade.” 

“I know what I’m doing, dude, calm yourself.”

The game’s been slow. Now that you’re actually paying attention, you’re finding that Jade has a no-mercy arm, going hard no matter who’s up to bat. When someone does manage to get a hit in, it usually doesn’t go past the infield, which is aggravating Vriska to no end.

John goes up to bat, letting Rose reclaim her spot at first base. 

“John, if you don’t give me something to do out here, I’m going home!” Vriska calls to him. He waves her off, but before he readies himself he casts a look over to you. 

The familiar _thwack_ splits the air, and you realize why John looked back at you all sly: he pulled the hit almost stupidly left, dead center between Kanaya and Sollux so it’s just out of their reach. But he didn’t hit it hard enough for you to just take some steps and catch it in the outfield. 

He did it on purpose. 

He wants to see you go for it. 

You dash from your position in the outfield until you’re diving into the brown of the infield, scooping the ball up into your glove and pushing yourself back to your feet. John’s still going for first—Rose is staring at you, mitt ready and body forward, foot prepared on base.

You whip the ball to her. It zips behind Jade, and you look down to dust some of the dirt off of your shirt. It isn’t until you hear the heavy _pat_ of the ball meeting someone’s glove, and then some followed silence, that you look back up. 

A lot of eyes are trying to meet yours. John stands beside Rose, grin huge and eyes bright. Rose tosses the ball a little in her hands, smile subdued.

It takes you a moment to realize that John stopped running.

“Oh, shit, did I get him out?” you ask, looking at Kanaya. She nods, eyebrows raised.

“You did.”

“Huh.” You brush some more dirt off before starting to back-pace closer to your original position, but Karkat jumping to his feet and shoving his mask up to the top of his head grabs your attention.

“Strider, what the fuck! Why didn’t you do literally _any_ of that yesterday?” 

“Any of what?” you call back, and you smirk as he raises his arms angrily. 

“ _Everything!_ ” 

Jade’s laughing, clearly excited and amused. “You shouldn’t have doubted him, Kar!” 

The air lifts a little as the chattering starts again. As John trades with Sollux to let him bat, he bypasses third to walk up to you instead.

“You weren’t joking,” he said, a little breathless. “That was kind of nuts.”

You shrug, trying to quiet the smile that you feel tugging at your mouth. “Veni, vidi, vici, man.” 

“No, I’m serious. Do you usually run that fast?”

“Guess so.” You avoid telling him that that’s not near your fastest. 

He continues to smile, fully gathering his breath. “It’s a shame you can’t hit. I’d like to see you go around the bases.”

You smirk. “Trust me, I’ve been around the bases plenty. Can run over those bases all day every day.” 

He gives a short laugh before shoving your shoulder. “Shut up. That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m being serious. Are you having bad thoughts, John? You thinking of me doing nasty things instead of thinking about me playing America’s favorite pastime? You know, I don’t think the Catholic grandmas around here would be too impressed. Is there a confessional you can go to? Do you believe in God, John Egbert? Because I think God believes in you.”

You give his retreating back a small smile before everyone readies themselves again. You notice Vriska giving you some nasty side-eye treatment, but soon enough she’s running, clambering to get the ball. 

\--

Karkat’s up to bat, readying his swing over the plate. From your position, now a little closer to the infield than before, he looks small, much smaller without the gear and padding that John now dons behind him. Despite his short stature, he stands tall, smirking at Jade.

“Come on Harley, give me your best shot,” he taunts, wiggling the bat a little, “You’re looking at ‘long-ball’ Vantas, the best on his side of town, next in line to the road to victory!”

Jade goes silent, rolling her neck and tossing the ball a few times. When she pitches, though, her arm goes full-circle backwards, and she lunges forwards as she flings the ball underhand. It hits John’s mitt hard, and Karkat’s left to swing over an empty plate, smirk wiped from his face.

“Jade, does this look like fucking softball to you?” he yells, and John laughs behind him.

“Yeah, you’re just Karkat ‘Babe Ruth’ Vantas up here,” he says, throwing the ball back to Jade. “Just call your shot now, buddy, we promise we won’t laugh.”

“You want me to call my shot?” Karkat shoots back at him. “Fine, I’ll call my shot!”

You blink at him, not sure what they’re arguing about exactly, but he stands tall again. Then, he sweeps his arm out and points to the back of the field, face serious while a small roar of laughter falls from the other players. You have no idea what’s going on, but you smirk to spite Karkat anyway. He looks a little ridiculous, at the very least. 

Jade shakes her head, among those who are laughing particularly hard. “Alright, Kar, fine. I _dare_ you to hit this!”

“You’re on, Harley!” 

Karkat readies his batting stance again, and you watch as Jade deliberates silently with John what to pitch. Everyone seems lax, not expecting him to hit anything—from what you could gather, it was rare to get much out of him when there was a bat in his hands. 

But when the telltale _crack_ splits across the field, everyone’s suddenly in motion, eyes following the ball. It soars over you, but as fast as you dash to follow it, it disappears behind the fence in a clatter, falling into the yard of a quiet, dilapidated green house on the other side.

“I told you! Karkat ‘The Babe’ Vantas makes a comeback, and it is sweet, caramelized revenge!”

Karkat is beside himself as tosses his bat down to run. John stands, groaning as he removes the catcher’s mask. 

“Karkat, that was our only ball!”

“Thanks a lot, jerk!” Jade yells, hurling her mitt at him as he rounds first.

You watch from afar as the rest of the team closes in on him, spitting curses as they slap their gloves down into the dirt or rain the leather onto him. He doesn’t care; he pushes aside the gloves with a wide grin, his joy bringing him to close over home plate.

“You didn’t believe in me, and look what happened! Look at what happens when you don’t believe in Karkat Vantas!” 

While some of the team resorts to harassing him directly, the others stepping to the side to huff quietly, you turn to look at the fence again. What was the big deal, anyway? All they had to do was climb over it to get it back. It looked as if the house was abandoned, anyway. 

You toss your mitt down into the grass. You grip the fence, fingers pinched against the wire and the battered green plastic that shrouded the yard from view, skin pricked by some of the dead bushes creeping up the barrier. When you start to hoist yourself up, you stop when you hear a distant, “Dave, don’t!”

The cry is repeated by different voices, and you twist yourself a little to look at them as they migrate to you. Jade yanks your hands away from the fence as you regain your footing. 

“What the hell—” you start, but you’re being dragged away from the outer edge of the lot, Jade’s hands gripping your wrists tightly. You tug them away, holding your hands up defensively. “What the hell is going on?”

“What the fuck were you _thinking_?” 

“Are you suicidal or something? Jesus!”

“Dave, you really could have gotten hurt—”

You stare at them as their words pile on top of one another. Eventually, they back down, exasperated and unnerved, and you stare pointedly at John. 

“What the hell is going on?” you repeat. 

“You can’t go back there, dude,” John says, face flushed.

“Okay, aside from like, invasion of property or whatever, what’s the big deal?” you ask, hands jerking a little. “The place looks like it’s foreclosed on. Are there vengeful spirits I need to worry about or something? Is it like a mini Area 51?”

“Invasion of property aside, no, none of those things are applicable,” Rose says, looking at the fence with some discomfort. “But it seems as though John didn’t tell you the lore of this place.”

You look at him, as does everyone else. He scoffs. “Hey, I didn’t think I had to! We haven’t had an issue with the place in a while.”

“Which is?” you ask.

“Well—” He fidgets with his hands a little. “Someone _does_ live there, and the guy has this dog—”

“It’s a hellbeast,” Karkat interrupts, staring at you hard. 

“A what?”

John drags a hand down his face, glasses pushed to his hair. “It’s a long story.”

“Ooh, John, you know what this means?” Terezi pries, grinning wickedly in his direction. 

You quirk a brow. Jade beams down at Terezi beside her, and some other smiles pop up among the group. 

“What?” you try. 

Jade’s the first to respond enthusiastically, with Terezi and a few others following her lead.

“Campout!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think that i won't take scenes from the sandlot nearly word for word then [i've got some news for you bud.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0a3jkcTAe4)
> 
> thanks so much for the comments/kudos/etc! i'm so glad you guys are enjoying these dweebs running in circles. although if someone who actually knows a thing or two about baseball is reading this......i'm sorry lmao. also, sorry if the exposition was a lil heavy in this one. john.....shut up abt baseball..........
> 
> next up: girls and boys at a sleepover. because sleepovers always end well. ;-)
> 
> hmu at puckspace.tumblr.com if you want!


	3. seeing stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more mood music: [zowie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuikfC6rhZE)  
> also look at this rad chapter two fanart by boogie!! [it makes me smile.](http://dingbat-doodles.tumblr.com/post/146943689552/johndaveweek-day-2-your-favorite-au-i-myself)

RECEIVED:  remember that we’re meeting up at rose’s this weekend!

RECEIVED: just cross through the sandlot and hop over into her backyard. her mom knows we’re all coming, heheh.

SENT:  how could i forget egbert 

SENT: youve been reminding me for the past four days

RECEIVED: let me be excited! it’s been a long time since we’ve had a big sleepover like this.

RECEIVED:  well, not you, but now you get to be a part of it. 

SENT: im not stopping your nostalgic trip boner or w/e

SENT:  but i am gonna stop you with this whole daily reminder business

SENT: hey siri be a lamb and block john egbert from ever contacting me again 

RECEIVED: but dave, if i’m not going to be the one throwing rocks at your window and holding a boombox in your front yard to get your attention, who is? 

SENT: john cusack maybe

SENT:  clearly the alpha john in this situation

SENT: take me away john cusack im swooning over your lame if not appropriately placed 80s tunes

RECEIVED:  rude! i’d like to think that i’m a little better than john cusack.

SENT: man look at that ego its just soaring away up up and out of washington into the goddamn mesosphere

SENT: relax dude i wont forget about the slumber party 

SENT: ill bring my nail polish and everything its gonna be a rad time

RECEIVED: i’m trusting you!

\--

The sky is just past darkening fully when you cross over the sandlot, heading towards the large treehouse in Rose’s backyard with your sleeping bag tucked under your arm. You nudge your shades down to get a clearer glimpse of the sky, sunset colors giving way to the creeping dark blue, but instead you’re distracted by a silhouette in the tree house’s window. You quickly come to realize that it’s John—

“Dave, finally! I thought you _actually_ forgot!” 

—halfway leaning out the window, bright smile countering the annoyance in his tone. He doesn’t move back inside as you hop the fence. 

“You forgot to woo me, dude,” you call back up as you reach down to pluck your sleeping bag off the grass. “What happened to playing shitty music outside my window? Thought you were going to go old school with this, like really go all the way.” 

You can feel the essence of his exaggerated eye roll. “Shut up and get your dumb butt up here! Ladder’s on the other side.”

The chatter from inside guides you around and up, up into the heavy mixed scent of wood and fire and citronella. You spot Rose first, settled against a few purple pillows beside Jade and Kanaya, but she greets you without so much as a glance in your direction.

“Hello, Dave. Welcome to my homely abode.” 

Her greeting prompts Jade to whip her head to look at you. Her long unfinished braid escapes Kanaya’s hands and slaps the wall beside her heavily.

“Dave! You made it!”

“Goodness, Jade, please be still.”

“Sup, guys.” You look around at all of the candles cluttering various spots, flickering light into the faces of the rest of the group. Smoke looms thinly against the high ceiling. “What, are we performing a séance tonight or something? Or are we actually going to burn this mother to the ground?” 

Rose glances up at you at that, and she smiles lightly. “I think we can fit both activities into tonight’s schedule.” 

“Sick. I’ll get my rhymes ready. Gonna be so fire.”

You step away from the exit of the treehouse when you feel some eyes urging you inside. As you toss your sleeping bag in a vacant spot, Karkat eyes you, ignoring John trying to talk to him. 

“Strider, would you lay off the douchebaggery and take off those shitty sunglasses?”

“Nah,” you say as you settle down beside the two. The three of you surround a small table with candles and snacks. You snatch a Dorito and flip it between your fingers slowly. “Eyes are the window to the soul and I don’t want any of y’all to gain access to that shit.” 

“Wow, edgy,” John teases. In return, you gesture a hand around the room, making the candles in front of you flicker under the breeze of your arm.

“We’re two steps away from an exorcism, and I don’t want to get my poor soul caught in the middle of Rose duking it out with a ghost.”

“Ooh, he’s got a point.” You turn just in time to see Terezi shove her red shades back onto her face. She sits on top of a bunk beside Vriska, who laughs as Terezi crosses her arms. “Like hell I’m going to let some ghost get a hold of _this_ girl’s soul.”

“It’s not like it’s pure or anything. Besides, what ghost wants to become a dragon-obsessed weeb?” Vriska says, which only rewards her a harsh shove. 

“Anyway! Everyone needs to shut up!” Terezi calls, hushing the overlapping conversation. She clutches a large flashlight in her hands, grinning wickedly. “It’s time to fill Strider in on our friendly neighbor next door.”

“Friendly my ass,” Karkat mutters. 

“Quiet, Vantas,” Vriska snaps. “And you too, Terezi—Jesus, the thing just fell asleep. Are you trying to wake it up?”

Terezi waves Vriska off dismissively. In the meantime, Vriska snatches the flashlight out of Terezi’s lap, much to the smaller girl’s protest, and opts to switch it on. The light hits her harshly under her chin; her sharp features loom in the shadows, eyes particularly hollowed. You scan the room from behind your shades. Everyone has their eyes on her, though some take cautionary glances at you to gauge your attention. 

You settle your eyes back on Vriska, leaning back against the wall and crossing your arms. There’s some silence before she clears her throat, straightening her position.

“The legend of the beast goes back a long time,” she begins, voice quieting slightly, “before any of us could pick up a baseball.”

Already, you hear Karkat groan under his breath, muttering. John swats the other boy’s knee with the back of his hand to hush him.

“It all started about twenty years ago, when that house back there became the home to a guy named English.” She gestures her arm confidently at the window behind you, gesturing vaguely at the dilapidated house just beyond the fence. “English originally lived on a remote island in the middle of the ocean, raiding tombs, messing with the dark secrets of the ancient world. He was a collector of sorts, but on one adventure, he stepped too far.”

She grips the flashlight in her hands tightly, grinning lowly.

“He awakened something terrible—no one knows the spirit’s name, or what exactly English did, but he woke this spirit out of a deep slumber. The spirit, probably pissed that he got woken up, would only let him live on one condition: that English got the hell out of there, leaving behind all of his raided ancient possessions.” 

Karkat groans again, and you can tell he wants to say something, but a warning glance from John shuts him up. 

“Unfortunately, English didn’t get the full memo. He left the island, sure, opting to come here—but he brought everything with him!” She scoffs at this, mouth still pointed into a knowing smile. “What an idiot! Not only did he bring all of his things here, but he put a lot of his finds in his backyard, where they were in plain sight at the time.

“Whether it was because of the curse, or because Washington isn’t as safe as people think, thieves started sneaking into his yard and taking away the artifacts. And boy, did that piss English right off!” She falls silent for a moment, taking a cautionary glance around the room. “He’s quite the marksman, but he couldn’t kill them himself. No, that would be too easy. So he went on another search, but for a different treasure this time—a dog.

“Oh, the sentiment was innocent at first. He got himself a pup from the pound, raising it alone. But the town was blind. They didn’t know that he was feeding it some of the smaller, more edible artifacts, artifacts powerful enough to reverse time, kill people who aren’t even _alive_ yet. Soon enough, the pup was full size—huge, and _mean_ beyond all belief. That dog was raised to only have one thing on its mind: to protect English and his stolen artifacts. To never let anyone set foot into his yard again.” 

She pauses shortly, giving you a hard stare.

“To _kill_ whoever tries to get in.” 

You quirk a brow at her over your shades. She continues, face becoming animated again. 

“The hellbeast was a true killing machine back when the town didn’t know any better. Eventually the police had to get involved when the neighbors started complaining about the growling and screaming in the middle of the night. When Latula Pyrope—Terezi here’s great-aunt or whatever—finally stepped in, she waved her chief of police badge in English’s face and told him that the hellbeast was too good at its guard-dog job.” 

Terezi beams proudly beside the storyteller. “Damn right—she set things straight.”

“Shh! Terezi, I’m not done yet,” Vriska hisses. “She gave English two choices: to either have the dog euthanized, or make the yard into a fortress if he chooses to let the dog live. The dog would have to be chained up in the backyard, where it could never hurt or kill anyone ever again.

“English would never kill his damned dog, so he asked Pyrope how long he would have to keep the thing chained up like a slave. And oh, how funny she found that!” Vriska laughed herself, before quieting her cackle to a dim chuckle. She locks her eyes on you again. “You wanna know what she told him?”

You blink in the silence. “What?” you ask.

“ _Forever_ ,” she finalizes. “And so, the hellbeast sits around with the cursed artifacts, stir-crazy, dreaming and waiting for the day when it can kill again. And to think, you almost fulfilled that dream, Strider.”

Vriska turns off the flashlight and sets it beside her with a distinct _thunk_. John turns to you then, eyes bright. 

“See, dude? _That’s_ why no one can go over there. It’s suicidal.”

“There was one kid that tried a few years ago,” Sollux interjects, speaking up from the other side of the fort. “No one’s _theen him thinth._ ”

“That’s total shit and you know it,” Karkat groans, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, I believe it’s the truth, Karkat,” Rose interrupts. You catch her eyes, and her small smile is devious.

“Yeah, see?” Sollux shoves a couple chips in his mouth, chewing slowly. The air surrounding him grows solemn, and quietly, he adds, “He got eaten.”

The room goes silent aside from Karkat grumbling curses under his breath. John nudges your arm with his shoulder, eyes back on you. “So?” he asks.

“So, what?” you retort. 

“Geez, you’re really passive about this! You almost saw death right in the face.”

“Egbert, don’t try to sell me this crap, too.” You straighten your seated position against the wall, looking around the room. “I know y’all are aching to get this story out on the streets and into readers’ aching little hands, but you can’t fool this guy. I’ve got my hands in my pockets and I’m walkin’ past all the lil’ newspaper boys. Like, sorry junior, you’re gonna have to dig through the sewer grates to get those coins for supper tonight, because I ain’t stopping for you.”

The sound of Vriska leaping from the bunk grabs your attention, and you look at her, looming above the rest of the lounging tenants. “You’re a nonbeliever now, Strider, but that’s just because you don’t know any better,” she says as she points a condemning finger at you. “Just you wait—someday your naivety will bite you in the ass and no one’s going to save you.” 

You shrug. “Good thing I’m tasty.”

She rolls her eyes in a huff, and you turn your head to look at Karkat, who has busied himself with shrugging on a grey hoodie as a cool breeze rolls through the windows. “Hey, Kar, you don’t seem to believe any of this bullshit either.”

He gives you a steady look tinged with annoyance. His thick brows furrow. “Are you crazy? Of course it’s true. I just think Vriska’s shit storytelling is one step above pain-inducing and one step below insufferable, and Sollux is just an idiot.”

He yelps as Sollux throws something indiscernible at him from across the room. You turn your gaze back to John. He looks out the window quietly, looking out over the darkened sandlot. 

“You’re all fucking with me and I know it,” you mumble to him. “I appreciate the effort, like, really, it’s kind of cute, but you don’t need to hold some weird hazing ceremony for me.” At that, he shakes his head, smiling a little.

“It’s all true, Dave,” he says, catching your gaze momentarily before looking back out. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

\--

The chattering dies down after a few hours, particularly after Jade is the first to fall asleep. Next is Kanaya, then Sollux, Karkat—the list goes on, until at last you find yourself the last to be awake, sandwiched between the sounds of John and Karkat’s deep sleep. The smoke that had loomed against the high ceiling had all but cleared, and only a few well-placed citronella candles were chosen to survive through the night. 

You hold your phone above your face to check the time. Three AM. Usually by now you’d be feeling a little groggy, but your mind keeps chattering away, filling in the void where conversations had been bustling and alive just an hour ago. 

You had all talked mostly about nothing things—you learned that the whole group had known each other since they were at least in elementary school, save for Rose, who had moved from New York in the eighth grade. John told you about the time he broke his arm playing little league when he was six and showed you how he can bend it funny now. Terezi tossed crumpled up wads of paper from across the room at you, showing you her talentless art skills while you engaged in a secret conversation with her in trashy comic form. You realize you had left much to the imagination; you dodged just about every question anyone had with something stupid and sarcastic, an action that mostly warranted some defeated whines and swift-changing topic. 

Now, the silence agitates you. You almost wish that someone was awake that you could continue talking to, but alas. The only company you have is the smell of citrus, the sound of rhythmed breathing, and the moon staring brightly down at you. 

You stare back at it for a long time. 

After some time of not getting any more tired, you slowly sit up, quietly pulling your feet out of your sleeping bag. You take a quick glance out the window behind you before slipping on your sneakers and deftly making your exit. No one stirs as you slip into the realm of night air. You decidedly leave your shades and phone behind.

You don’t go very far. You hop the fence of Rose’s backyard into the sandlot, feeling the dew on the tall grass tickle and wet your calves. Hands shoved deep into your hoodie pocket, hood flipped loosely over your head, you trek out farther into the chilled field. 

The shorter grass in the midfield is more forgiving. After some deliberation, some time staring at the section of the sky directly above you, you settle yourself down on your back. Though you feel the dampness of the ground seep through your hoodie and shorts, you don’t mind much. You prop an arm under your head and stare. 

Houston was never so forgiving with stargazing. Especially when you lived in the epicenter of the city, where the light pollution hung thick above your apartment building as a constant. 

You find yourself wishing you knew more about constellations. But you suppose it never mattered until now. 

You pass the time by connecting the dotted stars with your eyes, making your own constellations in silence until you hear a faint rustling nearby. Before you can prop yourself up to look around, a figure looms over you in the darkness, sneakers squeaking against the damp grass. 

“Dave? What are you doing out here?”

A small breath of relief escapes your nose. “Sup, John.”

He yawns briefly into his hand, then looks up at the sky before his eyes try to find you again. You can see his features faintly lit by the rounded moon. “You’re not falling asleep out here, are you?”

“Yes, John, I desperately want to catch a cold and look like a drunk loon that wandered in and passed out in the middle of a field.” 

“Oh, but Dave, what would your mother think?” he says, mock worry tinging his words like stones dropping into a lake. 

“She would be ashamed,” you reply gravely.

“That’s right,” he says, dropping down to sit on his heels beside you, “now come to bed, dear.”

With his face so near yours, you remember that your face is naked without your shades. You cloak your sudden bout of self-consciousness with the dark night and a sly, “But darling, look at the stars tonight.”

He looks up. A small, sleepy laugh makes his joking tone dissipate. “Yeah, the clouds actually calmed down. They’re pretty bright tonight.”

“Never seen ‘em like this before,” you mutter.

“What do you mean?” he asks. 

“Lot of light pollution in Houston.” You shrug a little, making the shifting grass rustle into your ear. “Couldn’t see shit.”

“Wow, that sucks.” 

The two of you quietly admire the sky for a short while, him resting in a low crouch beside you. You can really feel the dampness of the ground starting to soak your skin, and you debate getting up until John lies down beside you. 

“I haven’t really stargazed in a while,” he says, as if him lying down needed any clarification. You just nod a little. “Do you know any constellations?”

You search the sky with your eyes quickly, then point to a vague spot. “That one looks like a dick. Straight up, just clobbering the sky with its glory.”

He laughs. “You jealous?”

“Nah man, I don’t need a starry night dick. Van Gogh can’t get his oily dead hands on me, that’s for sure.”

“And the state of Washington was saved.”

“America weeps tears of thankfulness. Dave Strider continues to live on as a normal man without a massive starry dong.”

The two of you continue to chatter softly, laughing breathily at one another every so often. He points out some constellations to you, even pointing out the particularly bright ones and giving you your first glimpses at Mars—“or maybe it’s Jupiter, hell if I know.” You point at the sky as well, showing him the figures you had been making up.

Finally, as the moon begins to fade near the treeline, you begin to feel sleepiness tugging at your lower lids, and you mention that it might be time to get some shut eye. You help him up with a dew-wet hand (“ahaha, this feels weird, dude”), and as you two walk across the field back to Rose’s yard, you can feel his eyes on you.

“Not sure if you can really enjoy the view in the middle of the night, dude, but I won’t stop you.”

“Hehe, it’s not that, you doofus. I’m just realizing this is the first time I’m seeing you without your sunglasses.” 

“Well, it’s not particularly sunny out right now, is it?” 

“Au contraire. I think I’m getting sunburn over here.” 

You nudge him tiredly, smirk small on your lips. The tall grass laps thickly at your legs again as you near the fence. Once you lay a hand on the metal, though, John stops you with a hushed “wait.”

“What?” you ask, dropping your voice to match his. “Not done looking at stars, Egbert?”

He shuffles a little closer to you, almost too close for comfort, and gives the silent treehouse a quick glance before grinning at you. “Just, wait a sec.” 

After fumbling his hands around in his pockets for a moment, he abstracts some markers, holding them between your faces. He waggles them in a closed fist, and you watch his face turn mischievous in the fading moonlight. 

“Let’s get to work,” he says, hushed voice suddenly feeling too close to your mouth. But with a soft side-nod to the silent treehouse behind you, the warmth mutes and subsides, replaced by the summer night chill on your skin again. 

You smirk at him, plucking a marker from his hand. “Dick move, dude.”

“I’ve been waiting all night to do this,” he whispers. 

With a soft snicker, he hops the fence. You follow suit, following the soft squelch of his sneakers back to the slumbering fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aa i finally did it. updates may be a little slow since i just started my summer job, but don't worry--i haven't forgotten about these baseball kids. 
> 
> also! don't worry about jade and jake's relation in this for now. it may or may not be irrelevant ;-)
> 
> hmu at puckspace.tumblr.com if you'd like!


	4. july fourth

Before the loud commercials announcing weekend sales, the roadside signs showing dates and times for fireworks displays, and the sudden escalation of red, white, and blue paraphernalia had grounded you in the first day of July, you had been pretty ignorant of the exact month and day. You had noticed the rise in Washington’s heat as it steadied to a bearable eighty degrees, and you noticed your red hoodie lying on your bedroom floor more often than not these days, but for all you knew or cared it was still the middle of June, still the week you moved. Time became a huge blur once the summer’s heat and humidity made days and nights nearly indiscernible. 

Needless to say, you were thankful for the warning. 

The first and second days of July are stormy and dark, leaving you tucked away inside your room while John chooses to spend his time trying to kill your phone’s battery (RECEIVED: i’m so bored!!!!!!!!). You spend the time alone updating your blogs and comics, listening to the rain patter against the windows over the soft din of your music, hearing your brother pace the floors and try to make use of unspent energy in the most subdued ways he can think of. 

It shouldn’t have come as any surprise when Bro poked his head in to tell you that he was going out to get fireworks—as if he hadn’t had plenty tucked away in closets and kitchen drawers—and left you alone without an invite. He knew that you would have followed if you had wanted to join him, but instead you kept yourself cross-legged on your bed, staring at the half-open door he left behind. 

The next half hour you sit in silence, save for the rain and your phone buzzing under the weight of important texts. 

(RECEIVED: i have nothing but resentment for this stupid state. what business does it have ruining my plans, huh? absolutely none! no business!)

(RECEIVED: I figured you would find my saying so humorous, so here it goes: we actually almost burnt that motherfucker to the ground this past weekend. My mother is not so pleased. Please come with a eulogy in rhyme to assist her during these trying times at your earliest convenience.)

(RECEIVED: dave!! your beats are so fresh :o we should jam sometime!!)

Once you’re mostly positive that Bro won’t be back for a while, you slink downstairs. 

For almost three weeks now your curiosities have been dashed by your brother’s well-timed strifes, and for three weeks you’ve been guided away from the storage room with swords and awaiting bruises. Now, though, as you step inside the room filled with a dozen half-opened boxes, there’s no one to stop you. 

The first few you open are extra sewing supplies and old prototypes of puppets and toys that you immediately try to bleach from your line of sight. Another box contains various machine parts individually wrapped, safe from damage. The deeper you go into the room, the more you realize that these are items that had originally lived in the crawlspace in your old apartment that you had never been able to access; without such a place in your new home, you realize why he had frequently been on the defensive. 

Well, not really. The items are pretty lame and standard, considering your brother. The folder of legal documents, birth certificates, bank account records, whatever, whatever, seems almost too out of place among his things, so you put it back without much thought.

You make your way to the last box settled at the back of the room, sitting under the windowsill. The rain is still loud and heavy. The noise rests on your shoulders, hits the walls, makes the room feel thick. As you crouch in front of the box, your dim shadow looms over it. 

Folding the flaps back reveal another folder, dingy and creased white with time, and some framed photos, the glass coated in thick dust to conceal the colored blobs underneath. You don’t even bother to slip out the folder to flip through what could have been more old documents—the three stray baseballs sitting at the right edge of the box, nestled between photo frames and cardboard, are enough to make you stop. 

They’re dirty. The bright red stitching has long gone dark maroon and lightly frayed, thin patches of dirt cling to the sides. You hesitate for a moment, listening for Bro’s return at this opportune time, before reaching down to twist them in your hands individually. You feel the deep scuffs with the edges of your fingernails, follow the dirt patterns until they meld into one another. The last ball you pick up is a little cleaner than the others, the stitching a little brighter. A faded, messy signature is scribbled on the side in black ink.

You only have a moment to heave a breathy, confused scoff before you hear Bro’s truck pulling into the driveway. You try to read the signature one more time before placing it back inside with the others, folding the box closed and stepping out of the room into the kitchen. 

When Bro steps in, cap and shoulders soaked with bags hooked along his forearms, you give him a heavy side-glance behind your shades. You remember that he had looked at you a little funny when you brought home the mitt that John had officially let you keep a couple weeks ago, but you figured it was because he knew damn well that you hardly knew what a baseball was. 

You suppose it’s not so far-fetched that he would plant a box of old-looking baseball memorabilia to fuck around with you and poke some fun at your summertime hobby. The fact that he went the extra mile to act all defensive about it to make you burn with curiosity was an old trick that he knew you’d fall for, and boy, did you fall straight down the stairs and into a neck brace. 

He seems none the wiser, however, that you had snooped through the storage room as he drops the bags beside the couch in the living room, more content with being silent than asking questions. It’s not until you have your juice safely in your grasp as you walk back upstairs that you feel his eyes on you, but you abscond the fuck out of his line of sight before he can begin to ask. 

Once you’re safely returned to your room behind the closed door, you smirk into the lip of the juice bottle. Your phone buzzes away with unread texts.

\--

The rainy days give you some reprieve, but the fourth of July leaves you with your headphones clamped over your ears all day. It’s the first sunny day that you haven’t left the house since moving in, and though your legs jitter with want as the sun streams onto your floor, you ignore the feeling if only to settle your more mind-based nerves. 

John texted you earlier asking if you were doing anything today. You’ve avoided responding, if only because you know he’ll want to drag you out in a heartbeat if you tell him the truth of the matter. Sure, you could just as easily lie through your teeth and tell him you flew back down to Texas, and he might fall for it, eat that shit up like he hasn’t had a meal in weeks, but with coming to know John Egbert, you’ve come to realize that he can be a snooping pain in the ass when he wants to be. 

Which is to say, often. 

So it shouldn’t come to any surprise of your own that once the sun is just about ready to set, all of a sudden he’s flinging your bedroom door open, standing tall with his hands planted on his waist, his mouth moving while you quickly sit up from your lounging position. Though he seems pretty nonplussed to be standing in your room for the first time, it almost makes you feel naked. Which was absurd, since all the shit in your room is cool as hell.

He hardly gives you a moment to let you gather yourself before he’s stepping in and sliding your headphones off of your ears. The movement tugs on a couple trapped hairs in the hinges, which makes you wince involuntarily. 

“—texted you like, thirty times and you didn’t respond, so I thought that maybe you went away! So imagine my surprise when I stroll by and your dumb butt is _obviously_ home, and said dumb butt was _obviously_ ignoring me all day! Geez!” 

You run a hand through your hair, glaring up at him. Not that he can tell, but you hope that he feels the vibe anyway. 

“Can’t a dude just chill by his lonesome?” you ask. He rolls his eyes, tossing your headphones in the heap of blankets shoved at the end of your bed.

“Uh, no! I haven’t seen you in days, and I bet you didn’t even leave the house since I last saw you.” 

This is true enough, but you don’t give him the benefit of saying so. Instead, you swing your legs over the side of your bed, which makes him take a couple steps back. His stupid grin in full swing, and you curse your brother for letting him in, curse your brother for giving him the directions to your room.

His eyes are pleading with you to hurry up behind his glasses. “Anyways, we’ve gotta go! We’re having our night game tonight!”

You raise a brow at that, saying, “The lot doesn’t have lights, dude.” 

“Well, duh.” He laughs, obviously trying to contain himself from legging it back out of the house. “You have a calendar—it’s the fourth of July! Lots of fireworks tonight next to the lake, practically right over the field!” 

“Sounds like a fire hazard,” you reply coolly.

“It’s a tradition, Dave. And now you get to be a part of it.” 

If you grimace, you’re unsure if you do a good job of hiding it. “The Founding Fathers didn’t die for this.”

He tosses his head back to heave a dramatic sigh. “Yes they did, okay! They died specifically so we could have a fun night game under the promise of colorful explosives. Now, come on.” He scans your floor before nudging your sneakers next to your feet. “Everyone’s waiting down there already!” 

Under the weight of his gaze, you find that you don’t really have a choice. Soon enough he’s bounding down your steps, you following behind slowly. Bro shoots you a glance over his shoulder after John makes his escape to your front yard.

“Going out?” he asks, and you nod silently, mitt tucked uncomfortably under your arm. With that he looks back at whatever he was previously occupying himself with, waving you off. “’Kay.”

As John scoops up his tossed bat and mitt from your lawn, you take a cautionary look at your brother’s truck when you pass it in the driveway. The fireworks sit haphazard in the passenger seat—you begin to wonder where he’s going to go with them until John is literally dragging you away, forcing you to keep up with his longer strides.

The sky is touching on a deep blue when you two crawl through the fence and stumble into the sandlot. While John waves at everyone and laughs at their agitated groans claiming lateness on yours and his part, you quietly take your spot in the midfield. While everyone chatters to one another, you can’t help but fidget with the laces of the mitt instead. 

“Guys!” John’s voice travels easily over the field, and you look up to see him at home plate, bat readied over his shoulder. He tosses a ball in his free hand, then moves to toss it in the air. “Let’s go!”

The resounding _crack_ brings everyone back into focus, and their individual chatter rises to excited shouts as John pulls around the bases. You revel in the moments before full sunset, slipping your shades into your hair to focus on the ball, sun fully quieted and sky painless; you’re not near enough to anyone to worry about your eyes. Everyone seems too enthralled in the game to pay attention anyway.

And you would be more focused, too, if you didn’t find yourself concerned about the bloom of voices trailing over the field from the outer edges of Pipe Lake. You had never been to the lake yourself, but you knew it was close by, lying some two-hundred feet behind the tall gate protecting home plate. The others spoke of it often. You could hear the splashing water and shrill cries from children on days when you wandered into the field alone, or when everyone chattered quietly amongst themselves during breaks. These quiet moments had been perfectly fine—but now, with the sky going from blue to black, with the sandlot lying too near the thickening crowd, you want nothing more than to leave. 

Not that you could if you tried. Despite being generally alone and ignored in your position on the field, you knew full well that John had an eye on you for most of the game day after day. You think that he might pity you because you don’t talk much to Sollux or Kanaya, as if the collective quietness would have made you leave; maybe he pitied you because you were still the new kid and he wanted to be your hero or something. But you had never bailed on a game before—if anything, you had found yourself finding any reason to leave while Bro was home, and John had had no trouble in the past luring you outside.

Tonight, though, with your reluctance to leave, you can feel his stare weigh on you more than usual. You’re not sure if anyone else notices, but it makes you want to dip your shades back down anyway, regardless of the total darkness it would leave you in. 

A few others bat before John’s up again. It’s getting hard to play in the dark, but Jade still manages to throw a pitch that he hits squarely, driving it straight to you. You ready your mitt, ready to lunge for it, and—

The telltale whistle flies up into the night air some few-hundred feet away, and the echoing _boom_ following it grabs you so harshly that you falter, your mitt lowering, knees locking. The ball is briefly illuminated in red before it flies past your glove and rolls somewhere behind you into the taller grasses. The color fades with a fizzle, and another whistle goes up. 

No one complains tonight. While you would usually get an earful for slipping up, everyone has instead focused their attention to the sky, where colors whistle and bloom overhead one _pop_ after another. They seem excited, grinning and pointing, dropping their mitts, while John rounds the bases with ease. 

You freeze for a while before crouching into the grass. You tip your shades back down with tense fingers. Your heartbeat starts thrumming in your ears. 

John tries again to get the attention of the field as he crosses home base, saying something about how it’s the same show every year, how you all weren’t ten anymore, but finds less luck than before. You don’t catch the words exactly as his voice is blurred and hollowed in your ears. You pull at the dandelions trapped under your shoes, fumbling with the stems as the grass turns red, white, blue.

Your knees are aching when you see John’s yellow sneakers come into view a few moments later. He drops himself beside you with an agitated sigh, leaning back on his hands, legs outstretched.

“Man, I thought we might actually play a long game this year!” he laments. “But I swear, show any of these guys a shiny nickel and they’ll drop everything!”

You give him a weak laugh, but you don’t think he hears it—the fireworks ahead are too close. 

He nudges your shoulder with his lightly. It’s enough to make you pay attention to your wobbling legs and sit down fully beside him, cross-legged. You still lay your focus on the patch of grass and weeds trapped in the diamond formed by your legs. 

“You don’t like fireworks?” he asks. You shrug in response.

“They’re alright,” you lie.

He hums a little, maybe in agreement, mostly idly. “I guess they hurt your eyes?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

The two of you sit beside each other quietly. John tilts his head back to look at the fireworks, making unimpressed noises in his throat while you tear at the grass with your knuckles against the dirt. You know how these shows go—they go on non-stop for ten or fifteen minutes, which only gives way to other people setting off fireworks in their front lawns long into the night. You didn’t have a doubt in your mind that you would find leftover debris in the field when you all returned tomorrow, testament to the tipsy holiday-goers with their explosives tucked under their pits waiting for you all to leave.

The show’s only been going on for about five minutes and you can feel the anxiety travelling into your legs, and you make a huge effort to keep your knees from bobbing. You could just grab the mitt and leg it out of the field—John figures you’re just bored, maybe he won’t even try to stop you—

“Hey, want to go to my house? Doesn’t look like we’ll be getting back to the game at this rate.”

You pick your head up to look at him, just as he’s illuminated blue and white. He starts to push himself up from the grass before you give an answer.

“We could watch a movie or something,” he continues, brushing dirt off of his legs, probably smearing grass stains into his shorts. “My dad’s out anyway, probably bringing food over to neighbors and stuff. Maybe you’ll meet him later.”

You don’t know if you nod at him or if it’s more of a nervous quake, but you follow his lead and stand with your mitt in hand. He looks over the field one more time, disdain in his eyes as the rest of the group continues to enjoy the fireworks. 

“We’re going!” he calls halfheartedly, but no one turns to say goodbye. They probably can’t hear him—but as you duck your head to follow him out of the hole in the fence, you do sense someone watching your departure nearby. 

When your gaze slides over to Vriska sitting in the outfield, you catch the flash of displeasure in her face before Terezi calls her back to the colors hanging in the sky. You stare at her for a moment longer before taking your leave.

You follow the bright yellow shoes away from the noise.

\--

John’s bedroom wasn’t what you expected, and you realize you never figured he had any interests outside of baseball until now. You figured he was only half human, the other half baseball-enthused robot, knowledgeable of only the sport alone, driven only by his innate need to swing a bat and run in circles. So it was a surprise to see that, no, his walls weren’t lined with bats, and no, his floor wasn’t littered with baseballs and cleats and high school jerseys.

Sure, there were a number of teal and white posters tacked onto the walls, showing off the Mariners team and some standalone players, but alongside them were double the amount of movie posters. None of them looked new; while some of the baseball memorabilia looked like somewhat recent buys, the movie posters were torn at the edges, crinkled white in the folds, tape peeled. They looked well-loved. 

It was too bad the movies were total shit, or else you might have felt some respect for the guy. 

Before anything, he had introduced you to his pet salamander. She had clambered against her tank excitedly as soon as he had walked in, and you watched him gush over his “baby girl, little ray of sunshine, tucked away all day with no attention”. The sudden outpour of affection from him was something, to say the very least. You felt compelled to look away from the reunion. 

He offered to let you hold her, but you were one, embarrassed to let him bear witness to your still-quivering hands tucked deep in your pockets, and two, afraid that those shaking hands would drop and kill the thing, so you opted to just watch her cling to his arm. She seemed more content that way anyway. 

The next half hour is generally wordless on your part. You let him talk your ear off about the movies in his (vast, probably terrible) collection while he looks for one to watch, let him talk about the (shitty) movie posters on his wall, claiming that most of them he had gotten when he was ten, eleven, twelve years old. 

You wonder what his impression had been when he had burst into your room earlier, but you figure he was too determined to leave to pay much attention. Which was a shame, since the aesthetics of your room blew his shit taste out of the water. Maybe you would be the one to steer him in the right direction, away from his clear fixation on aliens and Matthew McConaughey. 

After some foraging for snacks on his part, he returns to his bed where you’ve taken refuge, sneakers kicked off to the floor and your back to the wall. You hold the bowl of popcorn in your lap with more or less quieted hands as he shoves a disc into his laptop, and you give a short, breathy laugh when the title pops up. He only nudges your elbow with his with a grin before telling you to shut up.

The movie fills the silence for a short while until his words overlap the dialogue. 

“Hey, sorry if I dragged you out of your house against your will earlier.” His eyes leave the screen to look at you briefly before returning to Ethan Hawke’s slow flashback. “Sorry the game ended up being a bust anyway. I thought everyone would be pumped to play! It’s been days.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “Seems like this is an annual thing. You get excited like a little kid meeting Mickey Mouse for the fiftieth time while all the other kids are like, moving onto Buzz Lightyear and shit.” 

That makes him look at you fully, and you flicker between looking at him and at the movie. 

“You think they’re getting tired of the game?”

“Nah, just like…” You sit up a little straighter as you gather your words. “You seem pretty dead set on playing is all. The rest of them don’t seem too beaten up if the game goes a little haywire.”

He folds his arms across his chest as he lets his eyes settle back on the screen. “You should have seen us when we were kids. Sometimes we wouldn’t stop playing until our parents dragged us home.”

“You’re getting sentimental on me here, Egbert. Worse than cooties.”

“I’m serious!”

“Don’t touch me, that shit’s contagious.”

He does his dramatic sigh, and you stare at him until he spills. “I just don’t want you feeling bored or left out or whatever! I’d feel bad.”

You could almost laugh, but you don’t. Instead, you raise your brows lightly. “I’m not getting bored, dude. I’ve only been here a few weeks.” You pop a piece of popcorn into your mouth and push it against your cheek. “Besides, you don’t have emotions like that.”

“I have plenty of emotions. And so what if you’ve only been here for a little while?”

“So I’m still like, a newborn baby in this state. Babies don’t know how to be bored, they’ve got too much new shit to see because their lil’ baby eyes are still getting used to everything.”

He begins to smile, but it drops away quickly. “I don’t know, you seemed pretty bored when we were playing just now.”

“I think your sight’s getting worse, dude. I was playing, diving for all those hits.” You tap the arm of his glasses briefly with the flat of your fingernail. “Get better specs.”

“You hardly said anything all day! Even when I got you earlier you were stupid quiet.”

You shrug. “Had nothing to say.”

He gives you a hard stare. “That’s such bull—you _always_ have something to say. Sometimes you don’t shut up.”

You start to respond, but he sighs again, softer this time. “I just hope people aren’t getting tired of the game, you know? I mean, like, that’s our _thing_. We’ve always played ball together. What the hell would I do if the group disbanded, huh?” He covers his face with his hands at the thought. “Oh my god, I’d be like the drummer in a band that wanted to keep the group together but they all left, and now I’m just this loser with some drums who no one to play with because I’m a washed up has-been who still wears his now-defunct band tee’s!”

A small laugh escapes you. “Do you even play the drums?”

He uncovers his face to give you a soured look. “Wow, Dave, way to miss the point of my great metaphor.”

“I mean it’d be cool if you played, we could jam with Harley or something.” You settle back against the wall again and direct your eyes back to the ignored movie. “Make some sick beats, drop our mixtapes all over the place, be the heroes this town desperately needs.”

“I play piano, dude,” he says, shaking his head a little as he returns to crossing his arms. You can see him smiling out of the corner of your eye.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. Get your classic ass all tangled up in these tunes, we’ll make it big. You can touch upon the hearts who can’t handle more modern musical delicacies.”

“Turntables aren’t _that_ modern.” He gives you a sly grin as he grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl in your lap. “Now look, we’ve missed out on Jude Law brooding for ten minutes.”

“He’s going to be brooding for the next hour, we didn’t miss much. Besides,” you say, nudging his elbow lightly and tossing him a look, “you just brooded enough to be two Judes.”

He only laughs, shoving your arm away from his, and you two fall into a comfortable silence, only breaking it to mutter about and chuckle breathily at the film. You hardly notice the fireworks shooting off in distant fields and streets.

The movie is just about halfway through when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. You slide it out, trying not to distract John with the light, and squint down at a text from an unknown number. 

The words make your brows furrow behind your shades.

RECEIVED: I would 8e careful around John Eg8ert if I were you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starts up some classic vriska drama because i'm petty.
> 
> not much to say about this chapter! it's long. like almost 5k words long. not sure why i did that. but i hope you all enjoy anyway :-)
> 
> hmu at puckspace.tumblr.com


	5. outfield talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood music: [back home you found religion in a dirty crystal ball](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-PDFP0jXcM)

It’s inexplicable, as it almost always is, when your brother makes the descent into one of his funks. Sometimes you’re spared and he drops slowly into his mood, giving you ample time to prepare yourself and get out of the house before the tensed air gives way. 

Other times, the fault in the air gives as sudden as the San Andreas. A solid six-point-nine quake. Major damage to the roads -- better hope you’re not stuck under the Bay Bridge this time, buddy.

In the following week you sleep over John’s house four nights in a row. He reaches out to you first—blue letters and exclamation points, entirely unaware of his new savior status—and you pack an overnight bag so fast you hardly give a second glance to check if you’re packing clothes or old food wrappers long-abandoned on the floor. You had only planned on staying for one night, but with no good reason for you to go home or for him to kick you out, he encourages you to stay. 

He asks briefly on the single drizzling afternoon over another round of Call of Duty if you need to go home, but is quickly distracted as you beat him in another round. As he busies himself groaning into his hands, you shove another victory chip in your mouth. The question is quickly forgotten.

He shows you his piano and plays you a few songs with Cheeto-dusted fingertips. He lets you fumble through some chords on your own, but you enjoy trying to mess up his rhythm (a feat that you’re only able to accomplish a couple times) more than filling the air with your choppy, unpracticed notes. 

You don’t get a single call or text from Bro while you’re gone. During the day, while the windows are open and clear, or while you’re out in the sandlot, you can only feel relieved. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t lose some hours of sleep feeling anxious about the silence at three in the morning, John sleeping heavy and vulnerable only feet away from you, cool breeze after cool breeze rolling through the window over your too-awake body on his bedroom floor.

The intermittent text tones from your phone instead reveal more unsolicited warnings from Vriska. While she dishes out vague “John Egbert might be the devil” notions, you sit next to the man in question himself as he rubs sleep from his eyes, sit next to him in a borrowed blue t-shirt that hangs a size too large over your shoulders, sit next to him with emptied snack bowls lying near your legs. While you experience déjà vu reading the latest text from her (RECEIVED: It’s not your fault that you’re new here. 8ut that just means you need to trust me when I say this: he’s only interested in keeping you on the team. I wouldn’t 8e so quick to trust him.), he stands up slowly at your side, stretching his arms high above his head. You don’t look up at him as you snap a text back to her. 

“You bailing on me here, Egbert?” you ask. He stifles a yawn into his hand.

“No,” he says, voice rounded with sleep, “but you’re one to ask. You’ve been texting through the whole movie!”

You glance up at Bill Murray’s action-blurred face paused on the screen, then up at John. “Didn’t know _Ghostbusters_ was a fresh new release in this part of the country. Washington’s pretty behind on the times.”

He lands a playful kick to your outer thigh with the top of his toes. You grab his ankle, making him stumble a little on his other foot and shoot his arms outward for balance.

“Dumbass,” he laughs. “Do you have a girlfriend or something?” 

Your phone buzzes pointedly again under your hand. Though you don’t break eye contact with him, his question does give you some pause. “No way man, girls have cooties. Their immunocompromised states wouldn’t be able to handle me, the illest of the ill, dropping all these—”

“Sick beats, yeah, yeah, I know.” He yanks his foot from your grip.

“No seriously,” you continue, “this one chick landed in the hospital after I dropped a couple rhymes, some really simple Silverstein shit, too, and I guess my presence was just too much for her. Dropped like a fucking pin.”

He raises a brow at you, rocking on his heels for a moment. “Did she survive the reckoning of Dave Strider?”

“No.” You drop your voice to a hush and reach out to put a solemn hand over his foot beside you. “She died, dude.”

He waves you off with a roll of his eyes and a small smile, removing his foot from under your hand. “From what, immediate brain damage?”

“Rude. She died from a broken heart because I rejected her.”

“Sure,” he laughs. “I’m getting a drink, do you need anything?”

You waggle the emptied chips bowl at him, and as he wades into the kitchen to restock on snacks, you check your phone. 

SENT: sorry i cant hear you over all these bad romcoms and alien flicks

RECEIVED:  Oh, gr8. He’s got you in a tight grip, Strider. 8etter escape that we8 while you can.

SENT: vriska i know this might come as a shock but

SENT: theres no need for me to wiggle my little fly wings to escape this assumed spindled egbert web

SENT: john and i are engaged

SENT: and hes my baby daddy

SENT: and wed appreciated some privacy as we bring little junior here into the world

SENT: cant have such negative vibes ruining his chakras and auras so early

RECEIVED: What????????

SENT:  hes going to be the next hokage his chakras cant be messed with

SENT:  you know how it is

RECEIVED:  I don’t give a shit a8out your fake hokage child! What I DO give a shit a8out is that you heed my advice and take this seriously!

You release a short sigh through your nose. You’ve been meaning to ask John about what her deal is, if this is some weird hazing ritual that they all decided on behind closed doors. But if this is some (admittedly shitty, mostly annoying) prank, then John’s the absolute last person you should ask. The whole thing’s probably his idea, anyway. 

So you open up a new message instead, listening for John’s movement in the other room.

SENT: ok so i dont know how involved you are in this

SENT:  but whats going on with vriska nonstop texting me like shes my clingy ex girlfriend whos wallowed herself into some pitiful alcoholic zone after stalking my facebook for too many hours

John returns before you get a response. He sits beside you on the floor again, nudging the bowl of chips near you as he un-pauses the movie. You can feel him giving you a strong side-glance when your phone buzzes again. 

You try to look down at it discreetly, but you know he’s paying attention.

RECEIVED: I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Some elaboration would be appreciated.

You dig a hand into the chips bowl and shove a couple into your mouth. You figure you should pay attention to the movie for at least a few minutes to keep John from getting too antsy.

When he seems satisfied, you text Rose back.

SENT:  she keeps telling me to stay away from john

SENT:  in as many different combinations of the same ten words that she can 

SENT: all while being simultaneously vague as fuck about it

RECEIVED:  Oh, dear. What has she said exactly?

SENT: mostly that he just wants me around because i make a full team or whatever

SENT:  and that his whole sweet guy persona is just a big act and that i fell for it like a grade a schlub 

RECEIVED:  I see. I’m assuming the noted vagueness is in part due to the fact that John is, in all actuality, a very friendly person.

SENT:  yeah

John kicks your foot with the side of his to get your attention. You give the movie another few moments of your time before quickly tapping out a few more texts. You smirk slightly at the soured look crossing his face.

SENT: that and every time i ask her what her deal is she just says that shes trying to help me

SENT:  or something

SENT: even though were not friends 

RECEIVED: Nonsense. Your chemistry together on the field is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

RECEIVED: The crowd erroneously concludes that you two have nothing to do with one another, however the rest of us are nothing short of aware of the dramatic love story unfolding between the shortstop and center fielder. 

SENT: yeah yeah lalonde we totally makeout and bang in the dugout

SENT: crowd flips its shit the cracker jacks go flying 

SENT:  my ancestors weep into everyones lukewarm cokes

RECEIVED: A riveting performance.

SENT:  but seriously

SENT:  am i in the middle of a serket-egbert feud or is this vriska’s way of making a stranger feel welcome

SENT:  because ive gotta say

SENT: shes trying real hard at whatever shes trying to achieve

SENT:  its fucking annoying

Suddenly, you realize John is much closer to you than before, his shoulder just barely touching yours. As Rose’s text comes through, you figure that he’s trying to figure out who’s keeping you from enjoying another cinematic masterpiece with him.

RECEIVED:  I’m afraid I’m unaware of her ulterior motives. It may be in your best interest to ask John about her -- he’s known her the longest and may provide some insight to her behavior.

“Is that Rose?”

You glance at John, his nose scrunched up in distaste as he squints at your phone. Before his eyes can glance any further at the words, you turn off the screen. 

“Sure is,” you respond, but he’s already backing off and pulling out his phone from his pocket. As the screen lights up his face, you realize the hint of bitterness in his eyes. 

He sends the text in a huff, then tosses his phone onto the couch behind the two of you before giving you a pointed look. 

His phone beeps a hollow text tone before your phone buzzes again. 

RECEIVED: It seems that I am taking your attention away from John’s movie choice of the night.

SENT:  hahaha you should see how pissed he looks right now

RECEIVED:  I can well imagine. However, I’m sure he would enjoy your undivided attention during your date. You must treat a lady properly, Dave. 

SENT: yeah sure ill remember to kiss him at the door and everything

SENT: later lalonde

John holds his hand out once you let the screen go dark again. 

“Gimme,” he says. 

You roll your eyes behind your shades, but place the phone in his palm, only for him to toss it beside his on the couch. He settles back beside you with crossed arms. 

“I’m not letting Rose hold you captive anymore.” 

You rest a hand over your heart. “I’m goddamn swooning. John Egbert, local hero.”

At that, he trades his childish pout for a smile, and you follow his lead and bring your attention back to the movie. You realize in his eagerness to get back to watching grown men fuck around with ghosts, he probably hadn’t paid any attention to yours and Rose’s conversation. Or, if he had, he wasn’t exactly keen on talking about Vriska.

Which was fine. Whether John was behind this in the style of a badly-staged prank, or if there was actually some re-hashed drama between the two, you didn’t want to bring it up to him. 

You figure you should wait it out for a little longer. 

\--

RECEIVED: Heading out.

Those two words are enough to signal that your brother’s storm has more or less passed. Still, you spend most of the day at the field, only stopping at the empty home briefly to drop off your bag. 

For the first time in almost a week you’re able to play with relaxed shoulders, able to give more attention to the game and play with some ease. Which is to say that when you slip up and let a hit from Kanaya soar past you, the excited screams for you to chase it are well-deserved as she sprints to first. 

You jog back to where the ball rolled idly up against the fence, and you try to search for it in the tall grasses as some clearly agitated words hit your back.

“Come on, you piece of shit, where are you?” you mutter.

When you finally spot the ball, dusted brown and camouflaged in the dead weeds, an unfamiliar noise pricks your ear. 

It makes you stop mid-reach. It causes you to look up at the coarse green mesh concealing the yard on the other side of the fence. The far-off voices hit your back, turning from agitated expletives to groans of defeat, but you ignore them in turn for realizing whose yard, exactly, is lying just in front of you.

The noise rumbles into a warbling growl. It makes your jaw clench. 

The dog, the acclaimed beast, is just inches away from your nose, and your only protection is some ratty metal cloth that’s become dinged and faded. You wonder if the dog’s ever tried gnawing its way through it—if maybe the tatters and patched holes were caused by some angry bites.

You watch the mesh warp slightly under the weight of the dog pressing its snout against it, and for a moment, the growl fades. The sound is replaced by quick bursts of sniffing, followed by a bigger snuff that pulls the mesh taught around the thing’s snout as it pauses. 

You remember learning that some dogs’ senses of smell are fifty times greater than humans’. 

You realize that this thing could smell the sweat building up in your pits. It could probably smell the three beads of sweat sliding down your sides individually. 

When its growl builds up again, throaty and dark, you remember very quickly that this beast may or may not have torn a few dozen guys to bits, and _that’s_ when you snatch the ball from its hiding spot and turn your back to the fence, jogging back to the safety of the midfield as a single, sharp bark bites at your back. 

Sollux readies his glove as you toss the ball to him. Some eyes are on you—John’s are pointedly questioning, while others have inklings of knowing shining through—but the usual chatter returns as Jade goes up to bat, passing off her glove to John. 

You know you can relax for now since Jade isn’t the most superb batter of the bunch either, frequently only making the ball go as far as the infield. While everyone’s occupied with watching her strike out (much to Karkat’s contained joy, you’re sure, as he mutters distractions to her), you toss a look over your shoulder back at the now-quieted fence.

Though you see nothing resembling the dog, no warped mesh from its snout, you do catch Vriska staring at you from her position, arms folded lazily. With a short glance to the infield, she begins to make her way toward you. 

You spare the infield a short glance as well to assess the game’s situation before she’s in front of you, tucking thick wisps of hair back under the hem of her cap.

“What’s up—” you start, but she quickly quiets you with a raised hand. 

“Let’s get straight to business.”

You raise a brow after some pause. “Not to burst your start-up bubble, but I don’t think we’d make the best of business partners. Kind of got a lack of common interests keeping us apart.”

She huffs a short laugh through her nose. “More like a conflict of interest, Strider.”

You spare another glance to the infield where everyone else is blindly preoccupied with the game. While John’s back is to you as he stands at the pitcher’s mound, you catch a quick gaze from Rose from first base.

“But,” Vriska continues, “I think that can be amended. We _could_ be on the same team and work together here. I think I know what you want.”

You feel your brows furrow. “What I want?”

“You can drop the act, Dave. It’s pretty obvious that you’ve been wanting something _more_ than just, you know.” She waves a disinterested hand at the field. “This.”

A small, disbelieving laugh slips from you. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You’re surprised that she doesn’t become immediately impatient—instead, she smiles widely, eyes lit. 

“Duh, you’re _bored_ here! I watch you kick at the dirt and stare off into space behind those stupid glasses while these idiots fuck around up front. And the only reason why I watch you is because I have enough time on my hands, and the only reason why I have enough time on my hands is because these guys?” She juts a thumb at the infield. “Give me nothing better to do.”

A lie, you think to yourself. You’ve watched her bolt after more balls than you could count, become more enthralled in a hit from the batter than anyone else in the field. But you’re not given a moment to interject as she continues.

“And I’ve been trying to tell you, but you just don’t listen to me. I’m telling you that the one person holding you back is John—it’s no secret that he pulls all the strings on this team. You’ve got a lot more potential than he’s letting on. He doesn’t even call you up to bat!”

“Uh, no shit. I suck at batting.” 

“Well, how are you going to get better if he doesn’t let you?” she shoots back. “How are you going to get a feel for the game if he locks you up in the same spot every day?”

You slide your mitt off and tuck it under your arm and jut up your hands to stop her. “Jesus Christ, time out. Listen, I didn’t ask to be analyzed from the fucking outfield.”

“And?”

“And I’d rather not get my ear talked off by some crazy chick who thinks she knows what I want. I’m perfectly cozy as a damn clam where I am. Besides, what if my powers become too strong from being put into some kiddie base rotation?” You feign a gasp. “What if _I_ become the team czar, a goddamn sports monarch with no one to keep me in line? Fucking tragedy would befall this sodden town. Academy Sports stores on every block, a different dish of sports for all meals.”

She groans, planting her hands onto her hips. Her face finally turns bitter, and you cross your arms. “Look, it’s not _my_ fault that you’re blind to your own needs. Open your eyes, Strider. There’s a lot more potential in you than you let on, and the only other person on this team that can help you is yours truly. I can tell you right now that Egbert’s doing you a lot more harm than good.”

“I dunno, he seems pretty alright to me.”

“No shit, he puts that face on for everyone.” You watch her shoot a glare over at him as he pitches for Jade again, who, from the sounds of it, asked for a redo. “Just consider what I’m telling you for once, would you? You’re still new here—you could be a whole new guy in this town if you give yourself the chance.”

She doesn’t let you respond before she turns away to return to her position. Before she gets too far away, you ask, “If you’re so against this team, then why are you still here?”

“Not your business,” she snaps back without turning to look at you. “Just think about what I’ve told you. You can even thank me later!”

You stare at her as she retreats, until you finally pull yourself back into your position as you tug your glove back onto your hand. The face-to-face confrontation gave you more questions than answers, and a headache threatened to blossom at the base of your skull with the knowledge that her endless texting wasn’t going to let up just yet. 

Whatever. She was delusional if she thought you were going to fall to your knees with some grandiose realization that this past month was somehow entirely wasted. 

Still, you’re made only slightly more aware of how often you found yourself waiting for a batter that gave you something to do. 

As the sky eventually grows dark and some of the team wanders off to end their days with dinner, you catch Rose’s eyes from across the field. With some silent prodding, you find yourself crossing the grass into the dirt to meet her at first base. 

“That was quite the show earlier,” she says to you. 

“Yeah, fucking spectacular. Did it land safely in the depths of the Lalonde Scale of Approval?”

“Mm,” she hums, “safely enough. Could have procured a more dramatic reaction from the audience, but the act was found to be generally favorable. Though the network hopes for something grittier in the future—you need to wow them, Strider.”

“Thanks for the advice. I could never ask for a better agent.” 

She smiles lightly. “I’m assuming the conversation wasn’t too pleasing today. You’re quite downtrodden.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a single pleasant conversation with her, but thanks for the analysis, Doctor Adler.” You cross your arms with a quieted huff. “She’s got some real heavy agenda. Like you’d think she’d be fucking ripped with how heavy her thing against the guy is.”

“Have you discussed any of this with John yet?”

“Nah. Call me suspicious, but I think they’ve got some history to them and I’m not exactly in the mood to be nosing my way through some shit that hasn’t settled.”

She tucks her glove under her arm and looks behind you to give a short wave and a smile to another departing teammate. “Well, the two of you seem to have become fast friends, at the very least. He seems very fond of you.”

“Tell that to Vriska. She has this whole conspiracy set up that he’s out to ruin my life or whatever. Probably running some terrible blog to write down all of her findings.”

“If you find it, I would love to see it.” She settles her eyes back on you. “In the meantime, I would think about giving John some notice that she’s been conspiring. He may have some answers for you, and I’m sure with how close the two have you have become, he would have no problem divulging.”

You quirk a brow at her. “You know, maybe it’s my hearing finally giving up on me, but it sounds like you’re the one that might have some of these answers that I’m hypothetically searching for.”

Her smile falls into a quiet smirk. “Why, Dave, I’m shocked that you would even make such an assumption. I know very little about John Egbert’s personal life, and what I do know is confidential.” 

When the two of you part, she gives another gentle (annoying, slightly demeaning) reminder for you to bring up the situation to John. But even after you get home, after you and your brother share a moment of quiet acknowledgement, after you’ve showered and retreated into your room, you find yourself avoiding the conversation altogether. Even as your phone is sandwiched with texts from both John and Vriska, you manage to build a detour and talk to him about nothing things. Business as usual, as far as John can tell. 

Besides, the possibility of this being a drawn-out prank is still up in the air. You have the moral responsibility to stick this out just a little longer, at least until it fizzles out by itself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! sorry it's been a lil while--had a busy couple weeks.
> 
> bro is not the best, vriska is petty, john is sweet, rose is cool. dave's having a gr8 time in washington. 
> 
> hmu at puckspace.tumblr.com :-) 
> 
> (also: i finally changed my username on here?? thank god)


	6. beach episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at this nice [baseball dave fanart](http://kitzup.tumblr.com/post/148557674643/based-on-spacepucks-johndave-fanfic-play-ball) by kitzup!! so sporty

“Would you come down already? I’m getting so bored I’m starting to become one with the forest!”

You lean your arms heavily on the balcony’s banister, sliding your shades down slightly to feign a better look at the boy pouting on your front lawn. He's been standing in the full sun for a running ten minutes trying to lure you down, and, like a good friend, you've refused to join him. You instead raise your half-emptied bottle of apple juice for him to see.

“No can do, Egbert. I’m currently on a date with some exquisite _jus de pomme_ , and I’m afraid that in this specific moment in time, three’s a crowd. Like, usually I wouldn’t mind you hanging around me, but I’m kind of in the middle of wooing and I can’t risk you being a distraction, you know?”

John crosses his arms, squinting up at you from his spot while you take a long, slow sip of your juice. As he hangs his head back with a frustrated groan, you can see the shine of sweat on his forehead, the little extra frizz in his mussed hair from the afternoon’s abnormal heat.

“Besides,” you add, swirling the juice in its plastic bottle slowly, “it’s too damn cold out to play. I already lost a finger to frostbite over here and I’m not about to lose more just because I sank and let you drag me out to the lot, which I’m sure is a quaint as shit little ice rink right now.”

You watch him try to peer around the balcony’s bars to get a look at your outfit. In turn, you kick your leg up for him to see, fully covered with the comfort of an old pair of jeans. His eyes are awed at first, but quickly morph as his face twists in disbelief.

“How?” he asks. He tries to swipe the sweat away from his face with the back of his hand without you noticing. You notice--it makes you acutely aware of the sweat building on the nape of your neck, and you resist the urge to wipe it off.

“Well, the weather decided that it wanted to be a chilly ninety degrees today, and so my body started panicking and going into a cryogenic freeze all by itself," you explain. "Like all fully-automated, ‘Prepare for deep-freeze, Mister Strider’, and what am I supposed to do? Live out the next few hundred years as a chunk of ice, hoping to god some future alien kid doesn’t run by me and chop my frozen hands off because they think they’ll be a nice Christmas gift?”

You wiggle your toes at him before setting your leg down again. “Gotta hand it to the guy who invented pants, I really do owe him my life, my current state of existence in the year of our lord two-thousand and—”

“Dave,” he complains. He shifts his weight to his one leg, then the other, fidgeting in his impatience. “Stop screwing with me and come down already, your yard’s like a furnace.” 

You shake your head. “You have no shame, dude. Didn’t even bother to offer me anything in exchange for putting my life at risk for you, just expect me to waltz down because you made some wacky assumption that I care if you melt into the dirt.”

He pauses shortly, staring at you. You stare back until a response rolls from him. 

“Well, yeah?” he says, cracking a smile. “Of course you would care. I’m an important asset to this world and it would be a huge tragedy for mankind if you let me die.”

“Christ, John,” you huff. Finally, you push yourself away from the banister, hiding a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Alright, I’m comin’. But only because I know you won’t leave unless I shed some blood for you.” 

His grin widens. You rest a hand softly over your heart.

“And because I love you,” you add slowly, and you let yourself smile into the rim of your juice bottle as he releases a short laugh. 

“Yeah, I know, I’m irresistible. Just hurry up!”

When you join him on the street, mitt tucked under your arm, he immediately eyes your jeans and rolled up sleeves. “That’s bullshit,” he says. 

“No, it’s a long-sleeved shirt.”

“You’re actually going to die of heatstroke.”

You start walking ahead of him, trying to quiet the regret bubbling as you feel the heat of the pavement hit your cheeks. “At least I’ll die for a good cause—it’s a tough job infiltrating small towns with good fashion. If I die, invite the whole town to my funeral so they can weep their bad fashion regrets into my rotting bosom.” 

He quickly catches up to you, bat swinging idly by his side. 

“Oh please,” he says with a roll of his eyes, “do you want me to request that your headstone says, ‘Here Lies Dave Strider, The Guy With Three Good T-Shirts And Unwashed Jeans’, or do you want it to be more subtle, like, ‘Here Lies Dave And All Future Promises Of Washington’s Fashion Sense’?” 

You hum a little. “Maybe more like, ‘Here’s Dave Strider – Fashion Icon, Hot Piece Of Ass, Will Eventually Forgive John Egbert For Letting Him Die But For Now He’s A Little Bitter That The Dude Incorrectly Stated That He Only Had Three Good Shirts, When He Really Has Five’.”

“One of those is mine you know,” he says. 

“What can I say, blue might be my color someday. It’s a work in progress.”

“So is it crumpled up and destined to become one with the dust under your bed, or is it in plain view on your floor so you can admire its wrinkles every day?”

“Neither. I have it pinned to my wall as a reminder of the constant woes of having you as a friend. Sometimes it’s woes like, ‘shit, woe is me, this nerd’s going to drain me of all my cool that I’ve been stocking up on for the past sixteen years—’”

“Hey—”

“—but sometimes it’s like, _whoa_ , you know?” You catch him begin to smile in the corner of your vision, and you let the sentiment hang for a moment longer. “Like, ‘whoa, man…this fucking dude actually thought I was going to return his shirt, what a nerd.’”

He bumps your elbow with his, scoffing. “Hey! I do want it back, you know!”

You smile, knocking his arm back. “In your shirt fetish dreams, Egbert. It’s become a staple in my growing art collection.” 

He groans. “If it’s sitting next to that Ben Stiller poster I swear to god—”

“Woah, hold up. First of all, don’t diss the Stiller, he’s a sensitive guy with excellent hearing. Second of all, you should be honored that your shirt’s even in the same room as him.”

“A poster of him,” he corrects flatly.

“Besides, it’s next to Owen Wilson,” you say with a shrug, “because I think blue’s a good color for him.”

“Hey, you know who else would look really dashing in blue?” he asks.

“Literally no one else. Can’t think of a single soul who would even come close to looking as good in blue as Owen does.”

“It’s me, Dave. I would look good in blue. I would look fucking awesome in that shirt—I _do_ look awesome in that shirt!”

“I dunno,” you respond, raising your hand horizontal and turning it from side to side in a “so-so” motion, “I give you a six out of ten. Pretty average.” 

“What! I’m at _least_ an eight!”

You turn your head to look at him, and he turns his as well to display his glare. You both stop, and you give him an obvious once-over with your eyes. He crosses his arms defensively.

“Well?” he asks.

“A five-point-five’s in your stars today, my friend,” you tell him.

“ _What!_ ” 

You let out a laugh and start across the street to the sandlot before he can swat your arm again. 

The two of you had gotten some reprieve from the sun as you walked along the tree-shaded sidewalks, but as soon as you step onto the open field, the heat bears no mercy on your converted Washington soul. You find no comfort in re-rolling your sleeves or pinching at the front of your shirt, and the sweat begins to pool uncomfortably under your arms.

John verbalizes your discomfort with a low, “Oh, this kind of sucks.” 

The sandlot seems empty when you first step onto it, entering as usual from the far back of the field where the orchardgrass brushes your hips, but as you and John walk further into the midfield the low chatter of the team makes itself known.

He sees them before you do, and he picks up his pace to walk in the direction of the ramshackle dugout where the rest of the team struggles for shade. 

“You guys!” he calls to them, voice carrying across the thick air. “What are you doing!”

You hear Karkat before you see him as he belts a loud “Are you fucking kidding me, Egbert?” from his spot in the half-shade. He continues as you and John sidle up to the dugout where everyone sits sheened and drowsy.

“You better put that bat down and forget about it, John, because we’re not doing this shit today! If you think you can sucker us into playing on this god-forsaken hell day, think again!”

John frowns, taking a moment to squint at the sky. You swear you can see his eyelashes sticking together with sweat. “Aw, come on, it’s not _that_ bad—” 

“Bullshit!” Karkat spats. “You look like you just had a conference meeting with the devil himself, and as a courtesy he wiped his smug, hot hands all over you before shooting you back up here soaked in jet fuel!” 

“Listen, I already got torn apart by Dave, you don’t have to…”

As you suppress a laugh in your throat, you hear someone trying to grab your attention. When you turn to answer, Jade’s holding a water bottle out to you, waggling it slightly. 

“’Sup, Harley,” you say, taking the bottle. “Sounds like today’s the day the northwestern U.S. goes up in flames.”

“Karkat’s being a drama queen,” she huffs, waving off his tantrum. “But he has a point. It’s too damn hot to play today!” 

You uncap the water and take a swig, glancing at John as he tries to defend himself. You try to ignore the sun beating down on your back, instead looking at the miserable bunch before you.

“So what now?” you ask. “Are we all gonna sit here and become one with the earth, feed the grass our nutrients and shit?”

Jade moves to respond, but is swiftly interrupted.

“You guys are being such wusses!” John says, planting his hands on his hips as he addresses the whole team. “We’ve played on hotter days! Remember last summer when—”

“When you nearly fainted just running around the _bathes_?” Sollux interjects, combing through sweat-soaked bangs with his fingers. “Because _yeth_ , I remember that.”

“My mother was very close to calling an ambulance,” Rose adds. “Instead she decided to bother your dad at work and insist that you were suffering from heatstroke.”

“Your dumb ass kept going on about how you were going to win the game.” Vriska reties her sloppy ponytail, trying to shove the baby hairs from her forehead in the process. “And then your dad went into this whole speech about how we were being reckless and needed to go home and blah, blah, blah.” 

There are a few murmurs of agreement, a couple tired chuckles as John’s expression sinks.

“Fine, fine,” he says, swiping his forehead with the back of his hand, “then what are we supposed to do?”

“Well,” Kanaya starts, “it would be irresponsible to play today. Unless you would like your father to come home early to give us another talking to, I would suggest doing something involving less heat and stupidity.”

“Like?” he prods.

“Like…going for a swim.”

She smiles lightly as everyone else agrees in varying tones, and you watch John as he looks back at the baseball field behind you. He contemplates for a few drawn-out moments, maybe trying to will the heat away, but you watch his shoulders drop in defeat as he wipes away the new layer of sweat from his forehead.

“Alright,” he sighs, but he looks back at everyone with a growing grin. “Guess it’s a beach day!”

\--

The lake is unsurprisingly crowded when you all show up, newly returned with bathing suits and towels, but you follow the group as they find a spot with ease. Some stay behind to set down their things while some, a newly amped John included, toss down their towels in a heap to rush into the cooler waters.

You opt to stand near the abandoned towels and scan the lake slowly behind your shades. Despite the sand trying to set the soles of your feet up in flames, you stand firmly, giving the sun a chance to warm your shoulders and attempt to pull the long-subdued freckles from under your skin. Still, you hope, briefly, that it won't further darken the pinstripe-thin scars littering your back and sides.

As Terezi passes by, her sights set on joining the others in the water, you nudge her upper arm to catch her attention. When she stops and looks up at you, you jut your chin slightly to motion at the patrons lining the shore, largely consisting of moms with their overexcited children and lazing groups of teenagers. 

“Are we going to scam these lake honeys or what?” you ask. 

She grins knowingly as she crosses her arms over her ribs. “You’ve gotta pick up your game, Strider. Already sent a few running—the survivors don’t know what’s coming.”

“God damn, save some for the rest of us.”

“Hell no. You just have to catch up--you have all day."

You watch as she walks away from you and into the water, sneaking up to kick a large splash in Vriska’s direction. John and Jade have already swam farther out, sneaking blurry, unspectacled glances at the lifeguard before attempting to water wrestle. You turn your back to the water as the lifeguard’s whistle rings over the area.

“Dave, if you stand there all day you’re going to get burnt.”

You look at Rose, settled under the large beach umbrella with a book in her lap, eyes still skimming the words as if she hadn't addressed you at all. Kanaya glances up at you from her spot beside Rose, then back down at her magazine, flipping between a couple pages. 

“Me? Nah,” you respond, toeing a scraggly line into the sand, “I’d be more worried about the rest of the people at this place—they’re not used to being in the presence of a god, you know? You have to drop it to them slowly, so they only get a little sizzled.”

“We’ll keep your status as a blogger on the down-low.” Rose glances up at you with a smile. “Wouldn’t want to tip off the paparazzi hiding in the bushes. Might cause some problems for the rest of us lowly people without such demanding online presences.”

You crouch in front of them at the edge of their spread towels, drawing shapes in the hot sand with your fingers. “You sure? I am kind of a big deal you know, could get you all some recognition.”

“If I had known that being acquaintances with a person with ten blogs would jumpstart my career, I’m sure I would have left this lot behind long ago,” Kanaya says into her magazine. Rose’s nose crinkles briefly as she lets out a small laugh.

“Kanaya, you wound my blog-less, non-entrepreneurial heart.”

You swipe away the sand doodles with the palm of your hand. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent making sand masterpieces (you mumble the word “sanderpieces” more times than you’ll ever readily admit) under the slow-moving shade of the umbrella. At times you try to inconvenience Rose’s reading by sprinkling the granules in front of her, peering over her shoulder to read some of the sentences backwards and rap the words she had already read, but while she gives you no indication that she’s bothered or even paying you much mind, Kanaya flings some hot sand at your calves behind Rose’s back. 

You’re a moment away from starting a passive-aggressive sand war when you hear John call your name from the lake. When you look up, he’s waving an arm at you, squinting, entirely unaware of Vriska and Terezi sneaking up behind him. 

You give him a small nod before he gets dunked underwater, and you smirk lightly when he comes back up gasping and yelling, the girls cackling despite the sound of the whistle warning them to stop. Vriska shields herself from a large splash sent from John’s hand, grinning wildly.

While you had planned on bothering Rose more, you instead settle for watching Vriska as she wades near John, her voice just barely carrying over the noise of the busy waters while she attempts to engage him. You watch as she manages to pull him back when he tries to swim away, as they both fall into a fit of laughter over the struggle, as Jade attempts to save him by diving under and pulling him away. 

For a few minutes you idly comb your fingers through the sand, staring at the bunch as you lay on your stomach, propped slightly by your elbows. Particularly, you watch John as he smiles back easily at Vriska, laughing as she continues to mess around with him. All of the words that she had used to try to demonize him, the ridiculous texts that she had sent you over the past two weeks trying to convince you that he didn’t care much for anyone but himself, didn’t fit with the picture laying right in front of you.

If there had really been any sour history between them, you couldn’t see it. Was this a slip in the act, a moment of inattention in the grand scheme of this possibly-failing, mostly-shitty prank? Were they getting tired of pretending? Were they going to suddenly put a giant stop sign on their unfinished hazing ritual because you were just too damn good for them to trick?

You subdue a small jump as Rose pours a handful of sand onto your spine, pulling you out of your trance. 

“It seems that John would like for you to join them,” she tells you. Again, John is trying to beckon you to the water, but this time you don’t give him the acknowledgement he’s searching for. Instead, you look over your shoulder at her.

“I don’t know Lalonde, how do you know he’s not trying to get you in there? Maybe he’s searching for sea monsters and needs a professional.”

“Oh, I’m sure he knows better by now.”

Before you’re able to ask, a shadow looms in your peripherals, and you turn your head back to look up at John as he nears. His soaked hair hangs in front of his eyes, but he still opts for simply squinting down at you, glasses long-abandoned in the heap of towels. 

“Aren’t you going to swim?” he asks, somewhat breathless. You watch some water droplets run down from his collarbone to his ribs, and you race them with your eyes until they disappear in the waistband of his swim trunks. 

“I’m having a pretty swell time hanging out with these ladies,” you tell him. You feel the weight of another handful of sand land on your back as Rose hums a slow “mhm” beside you. John squints at the girls, despite them surely not giving him the satisfaction of looking up at him.

“I just see two lame dorks reading on the hottest day of summer when there’s a refreshing lake literally twenty feet in front of them,” he counters. 

“I didn’t think you could see much of anything without your glasses,” Kanaya says. 

“Very funny,” he deadpans. He returns his eyes to you. “Are you coming or not?”

You move to get up, but just as his eyes grow excited you roll over onto your back instead, laying starfish on the sand. 

“Nah.”

“Too bad!” he says, and he leans down and grabs your wrists. “I’ll drag you in if I have to!”

You feel a moment of panic rise in your chest, and you immediately try to tug your arms out of his grasp. Only now do you realize how huge his hands are, wrapped easily around your small wrists.

“Oh fuck no, dude, my skin is already exfoliated. Don’t drag my ass across the sand, Jesus Christ.” 

You continue to try tugging your arms away from him, protesting as he pulls you a few inches away from Rose and Kanaya. He laughs as you try planting your heels into the sand to stop him. 

“I won’t drag you if you just say you’ll get in the water yourself,” he laughs.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get in the water, just stop manhandling me, you demon.”

At that he lets go of your wrists and stands by as you get to your feet, brushing off some of the sand on your swim trunks. You follow him slowly to the lake, but as he wades back in, you stop just where the water laps over the sand. Karkat and Sollux sit at the water’s edge some feet away, and you almost think to join them before John’s grabbing your attention again.

“Dave, that’s cheating!”

You put your hands on your hips, looking out at him. “I’m in the water, dude. My feet are just soaking in all this algae, getting their pedicure on.” 

As he begins to come back to shore looking determined and exasperated, you catch Vriska’s gaze as she holds a conversation with Terezi. Her smile from earlier has all but vanished. When she shoves some wet strands off of her face, you can tell she’s trying to glare at you without letting on to anyone else that she’s glaring at all. 

Before John can try dragging you again, you sit at the edge of the water on the soaked sand, feeling the small shock of cold run through your skin. You kick some water at him when he’s close enough to fend him off, but he continues to stand where the water hits his ankles.

“Dave,” he starts.

“John.”

“You’re being a big lame baby right now.”

You look around the beach, looking at all of the people still clogging the sand and waters. You let your eyes land back on him.

“Actually, I think I’m the coolest baby here. Except for the lil dude over there with the duck floaties, I think he might be cooler than me. He could probably beat me up in a cool baby fight.”

“You’re impossible.”

You shrug. As Vriska snags his attention again, you watch him retreat farther into the lake, possibly leaving you behind as a lost cause. Taking the chance to breathe and lean back on your hands, you feel your palms sink into the cooled sand. 

Alright, so do you know how to swim? No. 

Were you terrified of water for a huge chunk of your childhood? Maybe.

Who’s to blame for this tragic loss of a basic life skill? Next question.

Sure, you could just tell him, all “hey man, I don’t know how to use my arms and legs in a way that keeps me from drowning”, but that would make things too easy. So you opt to let things take their natural course: you play the avoidance game, he plays the dense game, the universe aligns, things remain normal.

You sit for a short while by yourself, but you must look lonely, brooding and trapped in your thoughts, because Jade gives you a prompting look that you don’t immediately respond to, which makes her swim up to shore and stand near you. Some drops of water land on your heated skin as she whips her hair away from her face and shoulders.

“Are you just going to hang out here alone?” she asks. 

“If that’s what fate has in its patent-pending Dave Strider daily planner, then sure.” 

Instead of taking off back into the lake, she steps closer until she’s able to sit beside you. She drags her hair over one shoulder and wrings out the water trapped inside, letting the heavy droplets fall into her lap.

“I’ll keep you company! I was going to take a break from swimming anyway.”

“Jesus, Harley, you trapped half the lake in your hair.” 

She laughs. “I figured I’d bring it over to you, since you were acting all shy around it.”

“I wasn’t being shy, just respecting its boundaries. If you just rush into a lake as soon as you see it, it’ll get pissed off. Have you ever pissed off water before? Nasty stuff.”

“So is that why you can’t swim?”

You look at her, and she just laughs again. “It’s kind of obvious! You didn’t even step in far enough to get your knees wet. Kind of like a kitten!”

“Yeah, well.” You run a hand over your hair, looking back out at the lake. “I never really learned. Some body of water had it out for me and cursed me at birth, probably.”

“You mean Poseidon?” 

“Nah, but maybe like, Ariel or something. Sang her tra-la-las and as soon as I popped into this world, she sensed I would be some pretty damaging competition and got that tentacle lady to fuck me up. But the tentacle lady does what she wants so she took away my ability to swim instead of my prime musical skills.” 

“Oh my god, are you destined to have a rap battle with Ariel?”

“I’m totally going to have a rap battle with Ariel. You can read it in my astrology book. She doesn’t know what the fuck’s coming to her.”

She sets her hair back over her shoulder with a wide smile, letting the ends touch the sand. 

“I can teach you how to swim if you want! That way you can chase after her if she tries swimming away from your skills.” She kicks at the water lightly, splashing your dormant legs. “We can sneak away while no one’s looking and you can come back pretending like you knew how to swim this whole time!”

A small, breathy laugh escapes you. “You drive a hard bargain, Harley. Guess I can’t hide away from the truth when there’s a lake less than a mile from where I sleep at night.”

“Yes! There’s still plenty of summertime left—just text me whenever you want to do it!”

You nod a little, bringing your focus back on the trio still roughhousing in the water. John has long neglected trying to get you in, but every now and then, he looks back at you and Jade with a wave and smile. Jade waves back while you opt to stare. 

Maybe someday you’ll be able to dunk that dumb smile under the water and swim away before he can get revenge.

\--

The next time you all regroup at the sandlot, the temperature’s dropped back down to a mild seventy-five degrees, the usual Washington clouds drifting overhead to leave faint shadows over the field. Everyone is more or less in high spirits, re-energized after the day at the lake and graciously welcoming the weather as breezes roll over and rustle the grass. 

So when sundown is long underway, leaving the field to dim from blue to navy, the game ends, some heading out while the last licks of daylight can still lead them home. You’re just about to head out yourself until the call of your name stops you.

“Dave.”

Shit.

You sigh, turning to face Vriska as she takes off her mitt and cap. She shakes out her hair from its ponytail, letting it fall wild over her shoulders.

“I think it’s time to talk to John,” she says.

“What?” you start, taken aback. “Why?”

“Don’t play stupid, we’ve been talking about this for weeks! I think it’s time to tell him how you feel.”

“Oh my fucking god.” You run a hand from under your shades down to your chin. “Vriska, I get that like, fucking with people is your thing or whatever, and good for you, congrats, I hope you get a prize for it someday, but I’m not a part of this.”

She plants a hand on her hip, brow raised. “I’m doing this for you, Dave. You know that, right?”

“What—”

“Like, I _could_ just leave you to flounder and suffer on your own, but I’m willing to confront him with you out of the goodness of my heart!”

“‘Flounder on my own’, holy hell—”

She grabs you by the crook of your elbow, starting to lead you from the outfield to where John is chatting with Jade and Karkat at home plate. Try as you might, you can’t get a word in edgewise as she talks over you, insisting that she’s doing this for the greater good, insisting that things will be better off if you tell him your feelings, insisting that this has everything to do with you and not at all with her. There's an adamant fire in her tone that makes you believe, wholly and fully, that she's serious. 

As you two pass the pitcher’s mound, you finally break her grip and stop trailing her. You’re not sure that you want to wait it out and see if it’s a prank that just fizzles and dies—you’re starting to worry that it isn’t.

“Vriska, this is fucking stupid.”

She sighs, turning on her heel to face you. You continue, crossing your arms tight over your chest.

“Like, there’s a hierarchy of stupid shit to do, and while this doesn’t top like, I don’t know, starting a nuke war with the Russians or something, it’s pretty damn stupid. If you have some weird personal problem with him, that’s not my business, you figure that shit out yourself so I can kick back and hear about all the drama later. But I’m not a part of this.”

“Dave,” she says all too sweetly, taking a step closer to you. “Not only are you a part of this, but you're the whole conversation! We talked about this. I’ve seen you just standing there doing nothing, and I’m not going to wait around and watch your inner potential die out because you missed an opportunity. I’m doing this for you.”

With that, she turns back around and walks with purpose over to John, leaving you walking quickly to close the gap.

“Vriska, would you cut it out—”

“John!” she calls, putting on a smile. “We need to talk.”

You watch John’s expression falter a moment before smiling back. He walks up to her, leaving Jade and Karkat behind at the tall wire fence.

“What’s up?” he asks. He looks at you questioningly, then back at Vriska. You watch something in his eyes become worried. “What’s going on?”

You try to cut in before any damage can be done, saying, “Vriska’s trying to—”

“I’ve gotta say, John, I’m pretty disappointed,” Vriska starts, her voice cutting over yours. “You _finally_ get the ninth player that you’ve always wanted, after praying to all the gods and every Christmas miracle, and what do you do? You shove him out in the field and forget about him.”

“Uh.” His smile drops entirely, eyebrows drawing close. “What—”

“Like, I know his position can be demanding sometimes, but give me a break, this isn’t the major leagues! We’re blessed with this new talent and all you can think to do is put him in a position where he won’t do much! Now, I think that’s incredibly selfish of you.”

You dig your hand up under your shades, pinching at your eyelids. There’s no stopping her now; you can feel John’s eyes trying to peer into you as she continues.

“Also what’s up with the batting order? Is there one? He _never_ bats, and, not to be vain, but neither do I! From what I can tell, you’re the one hogging up the bases. Why is that, John? To make you feel like you’re _better_ than the rest of us?” 

“Vriska—”

“Because in case you aren’t aware, almost _all_ of us are on the school’s teams. You’re not the only one who knows how to play the bases and hit and run—do you remember who got Tahoma High’s softball MVP award last year?”

She pauses to let him answer, to which he lets out a, “Well, you did, but—”

“That’s right, _I_ did, because _I_ know how to play! And so I think you’re doing a _huge_ disservice to everyone by calling the shots, because you clearly just do whatever you want to make sure _you_ get the practice and _you_ get to show everyone else up!”

You’re not even looking at the two anymore, instead focusing your gaze on the darkening tree line. There’s some silence, before John asks, “Are you done?”

Vriska makes a noise to answer, but you’re surprised to hear John cut in before she can begin again. When you decide to look at him, he looks nothing short of pissed.

“Vriska, I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m going to tell you right now that I’m not falling for it again. I’m just not! Because I’m not an idiot!”

You raise your brows slightly, and you glance at home plate to see Jade and Karkat staring at the three of you as John raises his voice. 

“‘Again’?” Vriska asks, slipping in a disbelieved laugh. “What do you mean, ‘again’? All I’m trying to do is—”

“Yeah, again! You did this with Rose, and now you’re doing it with him—what is your _deal_ , Vriska? Do you have something against new players? Do you have something against _Dave?_ ”

You see Jade start toward you, but as she does Vriska wraps an arm tight around your shoulders, suddenly pulling you closer to her.

“ _Dave_ and I are on the same page here, and I’m telling you right now that either shit changes, or we’re _out_. Both of us.”

You lift her hand away from your arm and step out of her embrace, looking at John. “That’s a huge crock of shit, I don’t—”

John scoffs, not even sparing you a glance. “God, you can just be so _selfish_ sometimes, Vriska. I’m so sick and tired of—”

“ _I’m_ the selfish one?” Vriska laughs, too obviously, too fully. “If you would _stop leading people on_ , I wouldn’t have to use my time and resources to help them out!”

John’s face flushes, and you feel yourself get pulled away from the argument by Jade. 

“What are you talking about? I’m not leading anyone on!”

“Ohhh-kay, that’s enough of that,” Jade mumbles, letting you go once the two of you are near the dugout. Karkat joins slowly, busying himself with watching the argument over his shoulder.

“Holy shit, they’re really going at it today,” he says.

“So this is a normal thing with them?” you ask. Jade releases a heavy sigh, looking back at the argument. Their voices still carry over to you, but the exact exchange of words is muddled with the space.

“It’s been a while, honestly,” she says, “I thought they were done with this whole arguing over the past stuff, but I guess Vriska wasn’t done yet.”

“What, did they date or something?” 

“Oh god, yeah. What a fucking mess that was.” Karkat tugs down his sleeves as a slight chill sets in. “They were on and off from the glory days of seventh grade up until last year, when John called it off for good.”

“Yeah. And every time they were in an off period, Vriska would like, latch onto someone he started getting close to and guilt him.”

“Fucking sucker," Karkat scoffs. "It worked for a long time, too.”

You play with the laces of your mitt idly between your fingers, staring at John as he becomes more animated. “So I got caught in the crossfires of some unrequited _Romeo and Juliet_ thing.”

Jade lets out a pity laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. She must think John has the hots for you or something! Or maybe she’s just jealous that you two hang out so much.”

You smirk a little at that. “She’s just jealous that I’m hot as hell and John and I have a strong bro-ship that she could only dream being a part of. Gets all flustered and shit thinking that we're macking on each other, probably writes in her diary about all the ways we're ruining her fantasies.”

She shrugs. “Who knows! Either way, it sucks that you got caught in this mess. You’re not actually leaving the team, are you?”

“Nah. She wouldn’t shut the hell up about it, but I literally have nowhere else to go if I leave. You’re the only people I know in this town.”

“That’s a sad, sad fucking shame for you,” Karkat says. He gives the argument another glance before picking his mitt and mask off the ground with a heavy grunt. “Well, I’m getting the hell out of here. I’ve had enough.”

He walks off without a goodbye, and you give a small wave to him as he passes. As he leaves, you watch as Vriska storms away from the conversation, leaving John holding his face in his hands near the pitcher’s mound. 

“Geez,” Jade mumbles. She squeezes your shoulder apologetically, then picks up her mitt as well, telling you she has to leave before the night sky sets in entirely. Once you say your goodbyes, you slowly walk up to John. With the argument over, the air is quiet. 

“Hey,” you start. You watch his shoulders slouch in response. “Are you okay?” 

He picks his head up from his hands, and despite the quick-darkening sky, you can see how flushed his cheeks are.

“Not really,” he admits. He doesn’t look at you, instead turning around to retrieve his abandoned bat and glove. You follow slowly, waiting for more details. After some pause, he mutters, “She’s so fucking obnoxious when she gets like this.”

“She sure seems like a handful.”

“Mm.” 

He rests his bat on his shoulder, letting himself sigh slowly before turning back to you. 

“Was she like, bothering you before or anything? This didn’t all just happen today, did it?”

You shrug, but you feel a lump form in your throat. You had neglected bringing any of this up with him, despite Rose's constant advice. Now you knew that the slippery broad knew exactly how this was going to go down and deliberately decided not to give you any hints. 

You try to swallow down the building anxiety, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Kind of. She wouldn’t stop texting me for a couple weeks.”

“A couple of _weeks?_ ” he exclaims. “You were letting her say all this stuff about me and didn’t bother to say anything?”

Oh, shit. You can feel your heartbeat pick up in pace, and you raise a hand to run it over the nape of your neck.

“I thought she was just fucking around, I didn’t think she’d _actually_ do anything, dude.” You stand across from him, adjusting your mitt under your arm. “Honestly, I thought this was some weird hazing ritual or prank that everyone was in on, and you know, I didn’t want to ruin the fun by asking about it.”

His expression falls, eyes hurt. “Why would we do that?”

You feel yourself shrug again. “I don’t know.”

You honestly don't know.

The air falls quiet between you two, stagnant despite the cooling night breezes. You listen as he fidgets with his gear, hear his sneakers scrape against the dirt of the field. 

After some silence, he sighs. You feel your stomach drop at the sound of his voice catching. 

“I wish you would have told me," he says quietly.

And with that he walks off quickly, his long legs leading him away from you and the baseball diamond. You start to follow, but slow your stride when you lose sight of him entirely in the dark. 

The last you hear of him is the rustle of the tall grasses and the rattle of the fence as he leaves the sandlot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drama! drama! drama!
> 
> this chapter was fun to write but holy shit. it's long. it took forever. but here it is :'-) i hope you guys enjoyed it!! the next few chapters are gonna get...........Fun. 
> 
> hmu at puckspace.tumblr.com


	7. kentwood rivals

SENT: hey

SENT: john

SENT: john

SENT: johhny boy

SENT: john rizzle

SENT: how many different variations of your name do i have to make before you respond

SENT: lets make like mr owl and find out

SENT:  john my dude

SENT: his lord and excellency john egbert

SENT: haha more like his lame and dorkery john egderp

SENT: im sorry that was a lil cruel

SENT: lets backtrack

SENT:  john egbert the illest of the ill the lankiest swankiest banksyest 

SENT: dude can beat out the rest at a level like kanye west 

SENT: but only a lil bit cause kanye dabbles in rap and shit

SENT: john egebrts got his nose packed with bad movies and grit

SENT: ty dirt from slidin those bases gotta slide quick cant quit 

SENT:  wont stop until the whole damn field is lit 

SENT: danger danger egberts on fire call the town gotta subdue

SENT: all these sick fires no for real hes on fire quick get the crew

SENT: critical condition but the dude can pull through

SENT: ok i would continue this but ive got this blaring thought burning a hole through my frontal lobe

SENT: john full o nuts

SENT: or

SENT: wait

SENT: chohn full o nuts 

SENT: jock full o nuts

SENT: nvm it sounded better in my head

SENT: also arent you allergic to nuts or something

SENT: damn im being hells of insensitive today 

SENT:  my bad bro

SENT: anyway you dont have to read any of that

SENT:  just lmk when you wanna hang

You toss your phone onto your bed, heaving a small sigh as you slouch down into your pillows further. You’ve been staring at the same Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff panel for the past twenty minutes, unable to progress onto the last few panels in a way that satisfies the ironic nerve settled somewhere deep under your skin. You consider deleting it for another hour, interrupted by multiple phone-checks, but instead you save it for a different day—maybe a day where you aren’t so distracted.

Not that there was much to be distracted by, considering that John hasn’t talked to you all day. 

On any other day he would have been blowing up your phone, telling you about his new lame movie find or luring you out of the house with impatient, minute-paced texts. But for the past day and a half the most you’ve gotten out of him has been a pitiful “hehe” and a “brb” that has lasted for an ongoing fifteen hours. 

Usually you would use this time away from your friends to spend the rest of your energy on making music, updating your blogs, tweaking your sweet online persona, but it’s hard to do any of those things when you just want some reassurance that your best friend isn’t totally pissed at you. You’re not even sure that he’s _entirely_ pissed at you, either—word has it that no one else has heard much from him. And while you’re admittedly biting a couple fingernails over the whole ordeal, Rose has assured you that this is normal for him. That in another day or so he’ll be back to being his dorky, lame self ( RECEIVED: Probably, that is.). 

Which must be fine as peaches for the rest of them, the people who _didn’t_ get roped into this weird feud, who _didn’t_ totally fuck up a brand new friendship, but you’ll be honest with yourself. You’re losing your damn chill. 

So yeah, you totally regret not listening to Rose when she told you eighty times to talk to John. Had you brought it up to him, you would have avoided nearly all direct contact with his and Vriska’s argument, you would have avoided the awkward and damning aftershocks, and most of all you wouldn’t be checking your phone every three minutes feeling ghost vibrations trailing up your leg hoping that he’s going to respond. 

In short, you didn’t realize how lonely and boring things would be without him. 

How lame.

And the worst part? Bro definitely knows that something’s up.

While the two of you have managed to stay out of each other’s way since moving in, with you being gone for most of the day and him preferring to work late into the night, your retreat back into your room has left him coasting nearby. You can’t tell if he’s curious (maybe), if he’s looking for a strife (most likely), or if he’s worried (god forbid), but it’s left your skin crawling all day. The more time you’ve spent away from him, the more you’ve realized that being around the dude can be emotionally draining and borderline miserable. 

And while you’d usually just take a wander around town by yourself to get away from him, you are hilariously, and stupidly, and fucking ironically, afraid that you’re going to run into John. 

What a fucking tragedy—you miss the kid, but it would be nothing short of painfully awkward to run into him unannounced when he’s been deliberately ignoring you. 

So here you sit, curled up on your bed, scrolling mindlessly through the internet, picking your phone up too often and tossing it back down, just hoping to any force of earth to give you an out. 

Then, by some grace of some god, your phone buzzes. 

You snatch it up, hoping to see some flash of blue, the notification saying that “johnny long legs” has replied to your string of texts at last, but instead you’re faced with the garish bright green of “jade a.k.a. fucking wonder woman” trying to get your attention instead.

RECEIVED: dave!!!

RECEIVED: i think we should start swimming lessons today :O

SENT: hold up now cowgirl

SENT: i thought you were going to let me initiate this

SENT: let go of the steering wheel harley

SENT:  let me drive this car

RECEIVED:  only if you drive it straight into the lake!!

SENT:  is that a drowning joke

SENT: im very sensitive about this you know

SENT: triggered by the echoes of glub glubs bubbling up to the surface

SENT: jade i think im suffocating already plz 

SENT: save me

RECEIVED: stop being a baby and just join me at the lake! i’m so bored today :(

SENT: way to assume that im not doing anything important right now

SENT:  im a pretty big deal got all these bitches lining the street

RECEIVED: oh really?

RECEIVED: so what important thing is the great dave up to??

SENT: you know

SENT: chillin

RECEIVED: wow!! so inspirational bro!!!!

SENT: i know i should be one of those motivational speakers

RECEIVED: uh huuuh. just get your dumb butt down here already, i know you’re not doing anything :B 

You sigh shortly through your nose. A quick look around your room allows your eyes to land on the turntables that you know you’re not in the mood for playing around with today, the baseball mitt abandoned on your bedpost, and finally on your swim trunks, crumpled up against your dresser. 

Once you hear Bro wandering nearby, you slowly get up from bed, stretching your neck until it pops.

SENT: alright alright im on my way

\--

“Do you really think he’s that mad at you?”

“Unless he’s suddenly living his wet dream and has been abducted by aliens, and there’s a weird little alien sitting in his house pretending to be him, dressing up in his clothes like the second coming of E.T., yeah, I think he’s a little pissed.”

Jade hums, resting her arms on the edge of the shallow dock beside your knees while you kick your legs slowly through the water, watching the ripples through drop-sprinkled shades. Despite her insistence, you had coolly and calmly refused to get into the water fully, instead opting to feel the sun’s direct heat hit your back. 

“Well,” she says, pushing her wading hair back over her shoulder, “Rose is pretty much right. He’s had these arguments with Vriska before, and they always seem to send him into a bad mood for a few days. I don’t think it’s anything against you!”

“Does he usually go dead fucking quiet?” you ask. “Like, I haven’t heard a peep from the dude in almost two days. The last time my phone was this void of some prime nerd material was when he lost his charger for three days, but in lieu of that he threw rocks at my window until he dragged me out onto my balcony like fucking Rapunzel getting wooed by her prince. I let down my hair, he talked into it. Like cans on a string.”

“Umm.” She lifts herself up momentarily, looking out in thought as she kicks her legs under her. You can feel the deeper waters shifting around your ankles. “Well, he’s messaged me a little less than usual, but he hasn’t totally ignored me. He just seems kind of down!”

“What’s he been saying?”

“Mostly Vriska talk.” She rolls her eyes. “Same old junk, honestly. For some reason he gets surprised whenever she messes with him like this!”

“He seems like a dense dude sometimes,” you offer. She only laughs in return. “He hasn’t said anything about me, has he?”

“Hmm.” As she lowers herself deep into the water again, hanging onto the dock only by her fingertips, she lets her nose create a small army of bubbles. You reach down to pop one with a nail before she raises her head again to speak. “He was just mad that Vriska dragged you into this, from what he’s told me.” 

“Well shit, him and me both.” You huff quietly. “Still wish he’d say something to me, though. Just like a, ‘Hey man, I’m not mad at you, we’re totally still best buds, please hang out with me and whisk my troubles away’ kinda deal. He could spell the damn thing out in rocks in my front yard for all I care.”

She smiles. “It’s pretty cool how close you guys have gotten since you joined the club.”

You breathe a short laugh as you cross your arms loosely over your ribs. “Yeah, get all the prime membership perks and everything.” 

“But, I wonder…”

You raise a brow at her, and she wades in the water in thoughtful silence for a few moments. Finally, she raises her brows back at you. 

“Maybe he’s embarrassed? You know, after Vriska went all ‘stop leading him on’ on his ass.”

“Nah,” you say, maybe too quickly. You clarify before she can defend herself. “Like, not to put labels on the soup cans before the soup’s even chopped into fine little alphabet letters, but he doesn’t strike me as the type who’s into dudes.”

She shrugs. “Who knows! Maybe you’re his first.”

“I’m flattered, Harley, about ready to goddamn faint. But I doubt that he’s into me like that.”

“So…” She stares up at you, grinning as she rests her chin in the fold of her arms on the dock. “You admit that he’s into you a little, then?”

“Well, yeah. We’re best bros. Bros gotta be a lil’ into each other. That’s how all the chemistry works—gotta mix and mingle the chlorine and the water before you can swim in the pool.”

She laughs, kicking her legs under water again. “Okay, but what if he _does_ have a crush on you?” she asks. “It would at least add up to him ignoring you!” 

“I still doubt it, but go on.” You pull out one of your legs from the water, folding it near your chest. “He got me hooked on those conspiracy theory documentaries and I’d really love to hear the ideas you’ve got floating around in your universe.”

She splashes you a little, trying and failing to bite away a grin as you lean away from the water hitting your chest. 

“I’m serious! If he does have a crush on you, what would you do?”

“Fall into his arms like a true lady, admit my undying love and passions as he carried me down the aisle,” you reply smoothly, hardly sparing her a glance. She splashes you again. 

“I’m serious,” she repeats. “Would it ruin the chemical broship? Would you leave the team if things got weird?” She pauses a moment, then slaps a wet hand against your knee, eyes wide. “Or, what if you have a crush on him back! Would you _date_ him?”

“Slow your roll, Harley,” you say, raising your hands to yield her. “I still totally doubt that he likes me like that, but if he did? Then…” 

“Then?”

…Well? If he did?

You find yourself falling quiet in pause as Jade stares up at you in waiting, idly kicking her legs, letting go of the dock to brush her arms underwater. You stare at her, expecting an answer to leave you, but you find yourself instead shifting your gaze to look back at the water, a hand reaching up to swipe at your sweating neck.

Had you really ever thought about this before? Sure, the guy ended up being your best friend, no doubt. And sure, the two of you talked near-constantly, often falling into such a comfortable banter that seventy years could pass and neither of you would notice. 

And sure, was he cute? No shit. But who didn’t love his goofy smile? Who didn’t notice his eyes at first sight? It was common sense. 

You eventually shrug a little. 

“I mean, we’re best friends,” you say, and you hate how small and unsure your voice sounds in your own ears, “so of course I like him.”

She sighs despondently at your response, and you feel like she tailored it especially for you. 

\--

RECEIVED: hey. meet at the sandlot at 2?

SENT: you got it dude

Maybe it was excitement, or maybe it was nerves, but you could hardly contain your cool walking over to the field. The end-of-July sun beat down unadulterated on your neck and the back of your arms, but you hardly let that slow you down. You hardly even noticed. 

John finally talked to you. After three lonely, nerd-less days, he finally said something. After having too much quiet time alone to worry and contemplate over thoughts you weren’t sure you wanted to address, the guy finally gave you an out.

It was pretty fucking sweet. And maybe a little ironic. 

So when you walk onto the field, straight-faced as possible despite your current condition, you’re expecting everyone to be as obnoxious as ever, chatting loudly pre-game, idly playing catch and laughing to fill the air. Usually everyone’s pretty excited and re-energized after having some days away from the game, and you expected that today would be no different.

But you feel your inner-jaunt wind down to a lame, confused stride when you walk straight into quiet.

Some eyes land on you, and for a moment you wonder if the news of the Vriska drama had fully spread and permeated with the added injury of rumors, making your presence awkward and possibly unwelcome. It’s only a fleeting worry, though, as everyone returns to their quiet conversations, some nodding at you in greeting. 

Just a quiet day, then. No worries. Nothing to lose your cool over, Strider. Geez.

You catch Jade’s eyes as she turns to look at you, and with a smile she waves, beckoning you to come meet her at the pitcher’s mound where Rose stands by, fussing idly with the headband in her hair. When you meet with the pitcher, she pinches your sleeve with her fingers and brings you closer. 

With the three of your nearly bumping shoulders, you realize you’ve been dragged into a secret best buds conference. 

“What’s with the cult meeting?” you ask. “Where’s my dark robe and candle?”

“All in due time,” Rose responds. “But we’ll save the initiation process for a later date. Right now, our concerns are focused on the young man slouching against the backstop, looking as though he would rather not be here.” 

She looks over in the direction of home plate, and you follow, eyes landing on John as he looks down at his phone. Aside from holding a small conversation with Karkat, the other idly tossing his large mitt back and forth between his hands, he looks positively quiet. 

You return your attention back to the little group chat. 

“See, Harley? I told you that there was a fucking alien replacing him,” you say. You only receive a large eye roll from her in response, while Rose looks a little amused at the thought.

“Their cloning technology is remarkable, whatever species they may be. Do you think that the English language translated well enough in the process?”

“Nah, I bet he has a fucked up Microsoft Sam voice and says some wacked up Google Translate shit.”

“Well, maybe _someone_ should go check that out,” Jade says. “You know, for science reasons!”

They both look at you pointedly, and you stare back through your shades, switching between their gazes. 

“Why me?” you ask.

“Think of this as part of the best friend initiation process,” Rose offers.

“Yeah! If you can’t handle it, then access denied!”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to revoke all membership points gained up until this point in time—”

“You won’t get the special edition letter jacket—”

“Why, Jade, there’s a letter jacket?” Rose looks at the other girl with a mock-hurt expression. “How did I manage to miss this important membership bonus?”

“Oh no! Maybe it got lost in the mail.”

“Outrageous. The postal service is going to hear from my sponsor about this.”

The two girls find themselves in a fit of giggles, and you subdue a smirk as you hold your hands up. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll go talk to the guy. But only for this sick jacket that I’m hearing about.”

At that, you turn away from the pitcher’s mound to face the dispirited boy lounging against the tall fence. You wonder why he bothered calling everyone here if he didn’t even want to play, and you wonder more why he invited Vriska along—you hear her voice travel from the far end of the field as she makes her late appearance, chatting away with Terezi as though nothing had happened. 

You wonder if he’ll even want to talk to you, especially face to face where neither of you can hide behind typing and retyping responses with three street blocks separating you. 

Still, you take in a slow breath to calm your nerves, and as you approach him, you see him glance up at you, and then again, holding a mildly bewildered stare. 

“Hey man,” you try.

“Uh, hey!” 

He tries a smile, but you can tell it’s forced. You adjust the glove tucked under your arm to give yourself a reason to focus on something else. He fidgets likewise, swinging the bat in his hand slightly and letting it bounce against the gate.

“So, what’s going—”

“Oh, hell no.” 

Interrupted, you stop at the sound of a heavy mitt dropping to the dirt nearby, followed by a familiar bitter voice. “Oh, _fuck_ no.”

Both you and John turn your heads to look at Karkat, thinking for a moment that he’s, for some reason, unhappy with the two of you talking. But the shorter boy’s not paying you any mind; he’s looking past you, glaring at something in the right side of the field. 

You turn when the rest of the team starts to join in with sounds of displeasure, and you watch as Karkat marches up to a group of kids you’ve never seen before. The rest of the team drops their mitts into the dirt and grass to follow Karkat, and as John walks past you, he gives you a look that tells you to follow.

“Who are these guys?” you mutter to him as you make your way to the forming crowd.

“The Kentwood team,” he mutters back in distaste. 

“Who is—”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Ampora?” 

Karkat stands front and center, arms crossed thickly over his chest as he stands in front of a tall, thin boy sporting a black and green varsity jacket despite the sun beating down on the field. The team behind him stares down the rest of you, and you watch as he gazes over your team swiftly before settling back on Karkat.

“Oh, we were just having a stroll around the slums and thought we’d drop by to say hello to our favorite pack of rejects.” He glides a hand over his slicked-back dark hair, offering a smirk. “Still as useless and childish as ever, I see.”

“Yeah, we are pretty goddamn useless, aren’t we!” Karkat spats. “Stooping down so low to even acknowledge your godawful presence!” 

Ampora rolls his eyes before settling them near you. You realize he’s looking at John, and then his eyes flicker over to someone standing at the other side of your group.

“It’s pretty disappointing to see that you lot _still_ have some stronghold over Egbert and Serket. They must get an ego boost playing with the rest of you.” 

You settle your arms loosely across your chest at that. It was as if Vriska had fed him the line herself. 

“Shut up, Eridan!” John shoots back. 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Karkat snaps, causing Eridan to bring his gaze back down to him.

“It _means_ that the fact that you’re allowed to pick up a ball is a disgrace to the country. With the exceptions of Serket and Egbert, you all might as well be committing high treason by even walking onto a baseball diamond.”

“Oh, it’s _on_ , Ampora! We can take you on at any time, on any day, in any circle of hell and still send you crying home because god forbid you get a grass stain sitting like an asshole in the dugout!” 

“Vantas, stop embarrassing yourself. You act as though you’re good enough to lick the dirt off of our cleats.”

“Watch it, asshole,” Karkat starts.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t be saying such upsetting things in front of you,” Eridan taunts before letting a grin spread across his face. “Am I _triggering_ you, Kar?”

You watch Karkat nearly raise a fist, only for it to be pulled back by Kanaya standing at his side. The opposite team wears different shades of smirks and shit-eating grins as your catcher practically snarls. Your team mutters some variations of “Jesus Christ” as you watch on quietly. 

“Shut the _fuck_ up, you ignorant heap of stinking garbage! One day you’ll find yourself in the ditch of a toxic waste dump and _no one’s_ going to want to bother seeing you crawl out alive, you got that?”

Eridan waves off the shorter boy in front of him with a sigh, still smirking lightly. “More empty threats. Really, Karkat, it’s a pity that you even try—”

“In the bottom of a ditch, suffering from chemical burns so bad your stupid, shitty hair’s falling out, and in your last moment you wonder, ‘Wow! If only I had the chance to _ever_ beat Tahoma’s team—’”

Eridan’s suddenly taken aback at that, and you can practically hear Karkat struggle to keep himself from beaming. “ _Excuse_ me?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry! Are you offended because of the _hair_ comment, or the fact that every time your team’s ever been up against ours, you’ve been sitting like a despairing little reject in the corner of the dugout because even your coach is embarrassed to let you on the field?”

Eridan falls quiet for a moment, smirk disappearing as he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. With a glance back at his team, he settles his eyes back on Karkat, glowering behind his thick frames. 

“Fine,” he starts. “Tomorrow. Noon, at our field.”

“Like hell at your field, the entire damn state can smell how your school reeks of being rigged.” Karkat places his hands firmly on his sides. “We’ll take you on _here._ ”

With an air of disgust, Eridan sweeps his eyes over the sandlot. “Fine. But you better come prepared, Vantas. Bring a spare pack of tissues so you can weep a little easier at the end of the game.”

“I don’t think we’ll be the ones crying, Ampora.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourselves.” With some finality, he looks back at his team and jerks his head in the direction from where they arrived. “Now, let’s go.”

You stare at the retreating team while John turns away in a huff, returning to the diamond. When you turn as well, you see some members of the team slapping Karkat on his shoulders with laughter and encouragement. But he looks soured to the core, fists balled tightly at his side as he returns to his spot at home plate. 

You hear him spit one last curse before you retrieve your glove and head into the outfield.

“Fuckers.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha.....at last......dave is forced to confront the possibility of having emotions. i also get to write him and jade being total buds which is a pleasure. 
> 
> getting things rolling now! time for the long-fated rival game. 
> 
> hmu at puckspace.tumblr.com


	8. the game

If you were someone who believed in cliché metaphors, you might have felt some feeling of foreboding brewing in the pit of your stomach as dark clouds formed on the horizon. You might have even felt poetic about the slow-moving storm rolling in to chase out the sun, the huge damn paperweight that made the sky obtuse and drunk with ego, the big gas-burning fucker that shone too bright and too close to the field for no reason other than to bring everyone some mild discomfort and, when it felt particularly rowdy, chase everyone indoors for kicks.

But, nah. None of that. If anything, you feel plain annoyed.

Not at the sun, or the fact that another bout of rain is headed your way, but because you don't give much of a shit about this Tahoma-Kentwood rivalry that has everyone else unearthing bitter feelings from days past. You’re not very interested in the time the Kentwood teams cheated their way through the sixth and seventh grade seasons, or the time that Tahoma had such a long baseball-softball winning streak that the Kentwood coaches nearly strangled their players right on their fields.

...Alright, maybe you want to hear more about the time John got suspended from a handful of games because of some shit he pulled with the other team, but since no one’s willing to sate your curiosities, whatever. 

And sure, bringing the subject up to John had finally made him talk to you for more than three seconds, but other than filling you in on some important details—who their best hitters were, who threw the fastest, who totally sucked and were perfect targets—he, again, left you hanging with a “brb” that still hasn’t been lifted half a day later.

Are you feeling bitter?

You don’t even know the word.

John aside, the rivalry alone is enough to make you feel like the preemie on the grapevine that missed the cutoff for being in the thousand-dollar wine bottle. The little runt that didn’t have the history to ferment.

On top of your personal layer of annoyance, however, is another slightly thicker layer weighing down the air, fed into not only by you but the other seven hosts waiting on the field as well. Everyone looks around silently for the same source of reprieve, but finds nothing.

You stare at the empty expanse of grass to your left, eventually meeting Terezi’s gaze as she does the same from right field. She frowns with a sweeping gesture at the empty space. You shrug.

“Alright,” John says loudly, huffing as he checks his phone from the midfield, “ _where_ is Vriska?”

Everyone responds with some mixture of noise, all pointing to “we have no fucking clue”. You watch from afar as he taps at his phone with hurried thumbs, face drawn tight and unhappy while his bat threatens to slip from under his arm.

The fence at the far right corner of the field rattles while he has his back turned. The rival team saunters in amid their own chatter, bats poised on their shoulders and hardly-scuffed mitts tucked under their arms.

Eridan leads them in, walking tall ahead the group of strangers that you can only pin half-names to. Aradia, you guess, idly tossing a glove between her hands and chatting to the boy beside her—Tavros, probably, a catcher’s mask dangling off of a couple fingers as he grins at her words. John had warned you briefly about the pitcher and catcher duo, before adding,  you don’t have to worry about them if you’re not batting, i guess.

Others trail behind, most of the names blurry in your head, others not coming to mind at all. You pick them off as they near, counting them silently with your eyes, until you stop at the girl tagging behind, walking her tallest despite being slightly hidden, pride pulling her shoulders broad and eyes fierce behind her glasses.

You clutch your glove a little tighter, feel your mouth draw thin.

You hear her name before you can think to say it.

“Vriska!”

As you and the rest of the team start to close the gap, walking through a thick haze of “what the fuck’s” and “you’ve got to be kidding me’s”, you watch Terezi jog up to Vriska as the other stands firmly with the Kentwood team at the pitcher’s mound. Eyeing the two as you near, you watch them hiss at each other, brows drawn tight, Terezi balling her fists as Vriska only grips her bat tighter. 

From the corner of your eye, you watch John glare at Vriska as he stands before Eridan with his arms crossed tightly over his ribs. Glancing at the teams as they line up, you see Terezi give up on her friend with a final bitter word, turning away sharply on her heel to stand with her team.

You tuck your mitt firmly under your arm and shove your hands in your pockets.

Eridan twists his bat over his shoulder slowly. Someone snaps their gum.

Both teams go quiet; all Tahoma-team eyes are on Vriska, standing near the end of the Kentwood line, still standing tall as she stares John down.

He breaks the silence first.

“Vriska,” he starts slowly, “what _the hell_.”

She moves to respond, but Eridan answers for her, smile subdued. “Well, I think Serket is a fair enough trade for makin’ us come here to play baseball in a grown-in sandbox. We play on your field, we get compensation.”

“That’s such bullshit!” Karkat says, farther down the line to your right. “It’s a baseball field, Ampora, we’re not negotiating one of our players just because you think we need to bow down to your superiority complex!”

“ _You’re_ not negotiating anythin’.” Eridan gestures his head slightly to the side, directing stray gazes back at Vriska. “She came to _us_. She figured she would save her dignity before it was too late, and finally made the right decision in leaving your sorry excuse for a team.”

You watch Vriska dart her eyes away for a moment to avoid the heated looks.

“She’s our center,” John argues before bringing his attention back to Vriska. “Like, are you kidding me right now? Are you _serious?”_

“Yes, she’s serious, now can we just—”

“Shut it, Ampora,” Vriska snaps, casting a sharp look to the team’s leader. When she brings her eyes back to John, she crosses her arms, bat wavering in her grip. “Did you listen to me at all? Either things changed, or I left. That was the deal.”

“We didn’t _make_ a deal—”

“I wasn’t fucking around. I _was_ going to take Strider along with me,” she says, gesturing to you briefly, “but I figured it would be best if I went solo on this one. Spread my wings by myself.”

John scoffs, dropping his hands to his sides in defeat. “Okay, well, some warning would have been nice! You can’t just bail on us before a game!”

“Well, she did, and there’s nothin’ that can be changed now,” Eridan interrupts, rolling his eyes. “As much as I love a good feud, I want to get off this field as soon as possible, so let’s just get this game started already.” He looks over at the single dugout with a grimace. “Since we have the _honors_ of bein’ the away team, we’re battin’ first.”

He begins to wander off to the dugout with his team in tow, and you tug your mitt onto your hand with a small huff. Before you turn away, you watch John stop Vriska before she can follow the Kentwood team any further.

“Vriska,” you hear him say, voice low, “this is such horseshit. You can’t play for _them_.”

“I can, and I _am_ , Egbert.” She gestures at the outfield with a nod. “Now let’s just go and play this fucking game.”

With that, she brushes past him, settling with the others near the backstop as John stares at her back. The rest of your team has more or less stayed grouped together near the pitcher’s mound, so as John turns away from her, he meets his team’s eyes instead.

“Alright,” he says, combing a hand through his bangs. “She wants it that way, fine. We’re still going to kick their asses, whether she’s with us or not.”

“Hell yeah,” Jade chimes. A small smile works onto John's face as his remaining team stays gathered near him.

“I’ll cover for center this game, then. Dave,” he says, nodding at you, “are you able to cover both shortstop and left field?”

“Are you trying to say I haven’t been doing both this whole time?” you ask. You almost smile when a little laugh escapes him.

“Great, alright. Everyone else, same positions as usual. We know how these people play—just watch out for Vriska.”

“Why, in case she decides to betray them halfway through and worm her way back into our hearts?” Karkat spits, at which Jade hits his shoulder with the back of her hand.

“No, dumbass, because of her _arm_ ,” she says.

“Yeah. Just remember,” John says, bringing his eyes to you in an attempt to catch yours, “she throws hard, and she throws fast. There’s no way she’s going to let up on us. She might even go harder than usual.”

You give him a short nod in understanding. His smile widens, and you watch the spark come back to his eyes.

“But we’re gonna send them home crying. Everyone ready?”

“Yeah—”

“ _Hell_ yeah!—”

“Let’s wipe these guys out of here—”

John claps his hands together once in excitement. You feel your heart pick up in pace as he fires everyone up, and you offer him a small smirk to let him know you’re in.

“Okay everyone,” he says, his smile wide and eyes brighter than they’ve been in days, “let’s play ball!”

\--

“You know, I thought that when people said ‘inning’ they were fucking up saying ‘innie’. And then I’d sit there thinking, why the fuck are these people talking about bellybuttons while this fine sportage is going on? But, I’m polite, you know, just curtsying my whole damn life away, so I say nothing. It’s rude to kill someone's vibe, especially when the ball on screen is in mid-air. Just common courtesy.”

Jade laughs out a “geez, Dave” beside you as you and the rest of the team sit under the mild shade of the dugout. You and Jade sit at the far end of the bench, watching John as he nudges himself forward to steal second while Kanaya’s up to bat. Aradia glances at him from the pitcher’s mound before giving Tavros a hardened look, then reels her arm back to pitch, giving John the go to bolt to the next base.

Kanaya hits the ball deep into right field, making the player out there fumble around in the grass a little before being able to throw it to second, where John has already ripped past and Kanaya breathlessly settles. With John grinning at third base, your team is looking at its sixth run against Kentwood’s three.

“So this is, what? The fourth inning?” you ask, and she nods in response. “And these guys really care about the points system I guess.”

“Well, duh, that’s how the game is played!” Jade says, both of you eyeing Sollux as he goes up to bat. “I still can’t believe this is your first actual game, Dave. Sucks that you have to spend it playing against _Kentwood_.”

You watch Sollux strike out once. “Just imagine, if my bro moved us down just a couple miles, I might be standing on that field feeling like a self-deprecating jackass with the rest of them.”

At that, she shakes her head. “No, you wouldn’t—they wouldn’t let a new kid join the team. Vriska’s only standing out there because she’s known Eridan and the rest of them since she was little, and I’m sure the whole freaking town knows about the stuff between her and John.” She scoffs lightly as she sits back from leaning on her knees. “He probably thought it was the perfect opportunity to try and throw him off his game.”

“Even though he’s the one that’s gotten us half our score.”

“Yep.”

Sollux strikes out again, and you can see him mumbling curses to himself. John eyes him carefully, leaning forward from his spot on third, just waiting for a hit, watching Aradia pitch out of the corner of his eye—

The bat clatters against the plate once Sollux strikes out again, tossing it down with some malice. John loosens his stance, shooting a short glare behind him at the shorter of the other team, Nepeta, as she playfully tries to nudge his foot off of the base.

You sit back against the wall of the dugout as Sollux returns, none too happy about his out. Rose begins to step out, her bat readied in her hands, before someone out in the field calls time. Everyone groans quietly--a complaint about the score, you think, or maybe a shitty strategy. You watch as Vriska walks up to Eridan in left field where he stands with his arms crossed.

After sharing some words, they both send you a look. You stare back at them blankly.

Eridan begins pacing the field in John’s general direction, stopping just near him at third. John pulls himself back from his lunge, standing straight now, brows drawn in confusion.

“John,” Eridan starts, before jutting a thumb over to the dugout, “get Strider up to bat.”

“What?” you mutter.

“Why?” John asks.

“Hasn’t bat yet,” Eridan responds shortly. “He either bats, or you forfeit.”

There’s some clamor in the dugout at that, and John plants his hands firmly on his sides.

“You can’t force us to forfeit if he doesn’t bat!” he says.

Eridan turns partially to face you, pointing a finger to single you out before looking back at John. “He gets up to bat, or you’re all done.”

“He’s right,” Terezi sighs, leaning on her knees a few seats away from you. “We’re technically cheating by not putting you up to bat, Dave. Official Baseball Rule 6.07, batting out of turn.”

“ _Terezi_ ,” Karkat hisses, nudging her arm roughly, “Strider _can’t bat._ ”

“It’s _the rules_ , Karkat.”

“So what, the government will fly in and send us to baseball Alcatraz? Give me a break!”

Terezi rolls her eyes before looking at you, and you look at her before looking at John. He gives some pleading look to Eridan before giving up, shoulders slouching.

You shrug and stand. Jade warily hands you a bat from under the bench.

“Alright, chill” you say, loud enough for Eridan to look back at you, “I’ll go up to bat, it’s no big. Knock this shit out of the park and everything.”

Eridan lowers his hand and nods slightly, smirking as he turns to return back to his position. As you step out of the dugout, you catch Vriska staring at you knowingly from the outfield, grin slight and wicked.

When you get to home plate, you give John a small look. He leans forward again in preparation, but you can see him worrying his lip with his front teeth.

You raise your bat.

As Aradia readies her pitch, you hear a soft snicker behind you, followed by a soft _smack_ as Tavros hits a readied fist against his mitt. But you won’t fall for the dude’s weak intimidation tactics--John had warned you that the kid had a knack for attempting to throw the hitters off--so when you swing and miss the first pitch, it's not because of him.

He speaks when you raise your bat again.

“You know, I had heard that, uh, there was a new guy that everyone was swooning over.”

“Interesting,” you say shortly, stealing a glance at John before looking back at the pitcher. She shakes her head ever so softly at Tavros’ hand signals behind you.

“And, well, I really thought it would be an Egbert two-point-oh, you know, the way people were talking. But I’m, um, I’m pretty disappointed!”

He says the last word as you swing and miss again, bat soaring emptily over the plate as the ball smacks into his mitt. 

“That so?” you ask. 

He throws the ball back. “Yeah, you’re more like, uh, what do they call it…” In his pause he hums flatly, before finally saying, “Well, I don't know, but you suck pretty bad. I haven't even gotten to my sick raps yet since you’re making this so easy!”

Oh, Christ. You quirk a brow and twist shortly to look down at him, then back at Aradia. You try to ignore the snickering grins of the fielders and the unhappy Egbert vibes flowing your way down the third base line.

“Raps, huh?” you say. Then, stupidly, in retrospect, “Lay 'em on me.”

“Wait, really? Um, okay, just...”

He must have given Aradia the pause signal, because you watch her and the other fielders slouch and roll their eyes. He returns to his flat hum, giving you enough time to wonder what unholy box you just opened, until he breaks it with an amused, “Alright, got it.”

You raise your bat again as Aradia readies her stance. 

“Uh, you know it's funny, I thought I had some rhymes for you, but really I was just...well, let me name a few.”

Jesus. You force your lips drawn tight. Don't indulge him anymore, Strider. You’ve done the damage. Put the stick down and walk away from the snake.

“I don't think you’re that great, you’re actually pretty lame,” he continues--rhythm immediately botched, you notice. “I could get my sister, she would make you feel incredibly, and totally, down in the dumps about your lack of skills-at-this-game.”

You can't help it. The dude truly sucks.

“Man, don't drag your sister into this.”

“I mean, I don’t even have a sister,” he mumbles. He whacks his mitt with his fist again. You can see Aradia losing her patience. “But, uh, you’re gonna leave this game in tears, gonna walk out without leaving a trace. You’re gonna be so sad, gonna wipe the tears away from your...”

You grip your bat as Aradia finally readies her pitch. Just say “face”, you think. Just say “face” and get it over with.

“...Eyes.”

You can't fucking believe this. Your bat dips as soon as Aradia throws the pitch, and you turn back to the grinning catcher once the ball has slapped his mitt. You gesture your hands outward in disbelief.

“You’re fucking with me, right? Face. Face, trace. How in the hell did you get _eyes_ from that sequence of words, dude?”

He just grins up at you, sliding his mask from his face and rising to stand. He slaps the baseball into your waiting palm.

“Heh. Um, you’re out.”

You look down at the ball in your hand.

“Okay, but that didn't answer my question, were you serious, or--”

“He’s gone, dude.”

You look up at the empty spot behind home plate, then turn to look at John beside you. He plucks the ball from your hand to toss it to Jade, already making her way to the pitcher's mound. 

“Oh. Damn, have you heard that kid rap? Because my god, it's pretty tragic.” 

He huffs out a short laugh, and the two of you walk to the outfield after retrieving your gloves from the dirt beside the dugout. 

“I think he does it on purpose,” he explains. “He throws people off by avoiding really obvious rhymes. It's so annoying.”

You tug your glove over your hand. “The dude's going to pop a brain vessel one day if he keeps that up. Straight up drop to the ground from a hemorrhage while the rap gods sprinkle some karma over his comatose body.”

You waggle your free fingers for effect, and briefly, his nose crinkles as he breathes out a half-laugh.

You expect him to say something further from the way his breath catches, ready to form a word, but instead he looks at you, then out at the midfield where the new inning is a moment away from starting. With a short nod, he walks away to occupy center field, leaving you to sigh through your nose.

Just when you thought you had wiggled your way out of the silent treatment cocoon. 

The sound of the ball cracking against wood pulls you back in, and you watch John move as he’s running, running, a swift-paced blur of blue until he’s leaping to catch the ball flush against the fence, expression immediately lightening with a wide grin as he gets the batter out. He throws the ball back to Kanaya, grapevining it to Jade, and as he readies his stance you know you’ve lost him again.

During the brief pause in game as the next batter readies herself, you feel your phone buzz in your back pocket. You pull it out for a quick glance and skim over the text, only to promptly shove it back in distaste.

You’re running as soon as the ball is whacked into left field.

  
RECEIVED: Too 8ad he never let you 8at.

\--

A small, collective groan escapes everyone in the dugout as Vriska jumps herself onto the back fence to catch John’s hit, and like that, the eighth inning is over, with your team in a small two-run lead and John returning to the dugout with a reddened, tooth-worried bottom lip.

You reach under the bench for your glove and tug it on. The drizzle has just set in, dripping through the spaces between the slats of the roof and darkening the dirt of the infield. You feel little relief when the rain hits your shoulders as you step out, and you find yourself squinting through the droplets landing on your shades.

The game’s gone on for too long, you can tell. Although you’ve spent full days out in the sandlot, these past couple hours have dragged on. You’ve spent most of the game keeping an eye on Vriska—watched her dive and run for every hit coming at her, watched her reel her arm back to whip the ball harder than you’ve ever seen. She’s been close to hitting the runners straight on in her eagerness to get them out, but by some grace has subdued herself just enough. 

John was right—she’s merciless this time. 

You can at least say that you’ve gotten her out almost every time she’s gone up to bat. The flash of aggravation crossing her face each time the ball smacked into your glove has been enough to sate you, even smirk at her as she retreated back to the dugout.

She’s still wading in from the outfield slowly in the transition between innings, tossing the ball between her hand and glove. When you pass her, she seems to make a point to nudge your shoulder with hers. 

Let’s just get this over with, you think. Just get them out and go home. 

The rain really starts to settle in as the darkest clouds looms overhead. You move to swipe at your shades, only for the rain to quickly recollect and blur your sight.

As Jade stands at the pitcher’s mound, she looks around for the ball, hitting her glove emptily. You can tell Vriska’s still tossing it between her hands, wading slowly to the dugout where her new team waits, grumbling about the sudden weather. She’s just about to pass by Jade before Karkat stands from his crouch behind home plate, roughly shoving his mask into dampened hair. 

“Vriska, I know you’re in love with the thing, but would you throw the damn ball to Jade so we can finish this and go home?” 

At that she stops, looking at him, and then back to Jade, who stands impatiently while trying to thumb the rain away from her glasses. 

Vriska twists the ball in her hand a little, as if thinking about it, and for a moment you think that she’s going to say something. Instead, she moves to toss it to the pitcher, shoulders shrugging briefly in silent apology. 

At least, you think she’s going to toss it, until you notice her flash a quick look to you, just as you’re thumbing more rain from your vision. 

Suddenly, she pivots quickly on her foot, turning away from Jade to instead face you, whipping it overhand and throwing so hard her back leg kicks up from the dampened dirt. 

“The fuck—”

You hardly have the time to even register the thing coming at you in a beeline for your face, but you pick up your glove quickly, hardly given the time to brace yourself or even the chance to see _where_ exactly the ball is, but—

“Dave!”

It happens in a moment. You hear the ball slapping your glove, and you feel it immediately sting your palm. You feel your one foot land harshly behind you in soaked grass in an attempt to keep your balance.

But what doesn’t register right away is the glove slamming into your face— the thick _crunch_ ringing through your skull _,_ your stomach lurching, your heart suddenly thudding under your damp shirt. As wetness trickles onto and over your upper lip, you pull the glove slowly away from your face, letting the ball drop loosely onto the grass. 

You shake your hand free of your glove. 

The rain soaks into your spine as you find yourself doubling over slightly, hands cupped to hover over your cheeks. You can feel them trembling.

The patter of nearing footfalls is just about lost on you. 

_“Shit.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)
> 
> hope you're all enjoying so far -- feedback, kudos, etc. is much appreciated, so thank you!! 
> 
> hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com


	9. blood brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood music: [won't someone tell me after all, what happened to the fireflies of montreal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSpFr_PXb74)

_“Shit.”_

The word falls heavy from your mouth into your hands. You close your eyes, feeling the involuntary rim of wetness lining your lids—more from shock than from pain, you tell yourself—and become acutely aware of the people circling nearby.

“Dude, what just happened?"

“Holy _thit_ , are you alright?”

“Jesus Christ, look—he’s bleeding.”

You open your eyes again to look at your hands. The rain collects and quickly falls away from your palms, stripping the dark red to a more muted tone before slipping pink droplets down to your elbows.

You wonder how much blood is soaking into your shirt.

As you raise your eyes to look at the small crowd, you straighten yourself slightly, keeping your hands cupped over your face. No use letting them see the real show-stopper, the mangled mess you can only imagine your nose is. Gotta let them sit in anticipation.

Rose steps forward tentatively before reaching out to hold your upper arm, as if afraid that you’re going to faint. She squints up at you through rain-straightened bangs, the thick ends hanging in her eyes.

“Dave,” she says, “I’m bringing you to my house.”

“What?” you ask—you try not to wince fully as the pain starts to set in under your eyes, but holy shit—“No, hell no, we have a game to finish.”

“I’m sure their teammate’s behavior is enough grounds for disqualification,” she responds, though she says it over her shoulder for the looming Kentwood team to hear. You catch sight of Vriska, closer to the back of the group, but through the droplets covering your shades you can’t tell if she’s looking at you or looking away.

“Disqualification?” Eridan scoffs. You eye him near the front of the group, arms crossed and hunching in the rain. “Over a bloody nose? Don’t make me laugh—this isn’t little leagues, unless I’m mistaken.”

“Over a broken nose that _your_ new teammate caused!” Karkat says, tossing a hefty glare Eridan’s way. “So yeah, no shit you’re disqualified. Congratulations, you really know how to pick ‘em, Ampora!”

“ _She_ came to us, I didn’t think—”

“ _Regardless_ , this game is over,” Rose interrupts. She looks back at you, tugging on your arm a little. “Come with me, Dave.”

“No way, I’m fine—”

“Then let me see.”

She nods at your face, and for a moment you pause. The number of eyes on you now, staring you down to see the damage, is almost too much. You see John looming closer, finally, but instead of coming to check on you, you watch as he storms over to Vriska at the back of the crowd instead.

“But, ma, what if you don’t think I’m pretty anymore?” you ask Rose, at which she smiles lightly.

“Nonsense, you’ll always be my beautiful son.”

After giving the wavering crowd a short glance, you pull your hands away from your face to uncover the damage. Rose’s brows perk up slightly while a ring of hisses and “oh, damns” come from behind her.

You swipe gingerly at your lips and chin with the back of your hand.

“Well?” you ask. “Is this like, _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ levels of deformed or what?"

“It’s not… _that_ bad,” Terezi tries, at which Karkat laughs shortly.

“Yeah, right. You look like shit, Strider.”

“It’s broken, that’s for sure,” Jade adds as she steps forward to get a better look through her rain-spattered glasses. You cup a hand over your face again, if only to catch the blood.

“Should he go to the hospital?” Kanaya directs to Rose, eyeing you uncertainly. Before Rose can get a word in, you wave your free hand dismissively, causing some amature noses to crinkle at the sight of blood.

“Nah, nah, I don’t need them,” you say, “I’m a big kid now, I can deal. Not gonna fork over money for some quack to touch my nose seductively a few times and tell me to come back because they fucked up setting it back in place or whatever.”

“As doctors do,” Rose responds. She settles her hand on your arm again and pushes you gently in the direction of her house. “Let me at least offer my abode so you can clean up.”

“I’m gonna fuck up all your shit with blood."

She smirks a little. “Oh, don't worry—I insist.”

With no other options offered, you find yourself walking with her slowly, sneakers squelching into the grass. From just behind you, you hear Jade telling everyone that the show’s over, to pack up and go home. You turn your head over your shoulder to scan the crowd—now dissipating, full of mumbles and soft bickering—to find John having a quiet, seething conversation with Vriska near third base. He looks to you as you’re guided away, and you look away.

Jesus, is your face starting to hurt.

Jade and Kanaya join your escape as Rose guides you to the outskirts of the field and out through the gate. Wet squelching turns to scraping against pebbled pavement; you wiggle your sock-soaked toes as you wait on Rose’s front porch before she pushes open her front door.

When she guides you inside, you shiver involuntarily at the harsh air-conditioned chill of her home. She doesn’t even let you kick off your sneakers, despite Jade and Kanaya stopping to do so at the door.

“Your mom’s not gonna flip her shit over some mud on the floor, is she?” you ask. She pulls you into her living room past two dark recliners before settling you on her white couch.

“Hush, Dave. This is a medical emergency.”

At that, she disappears to somewhere else in the house. The other two girls join you, Kanaya sitting carefully on one of the recliners as Jade drops your mitt onto your lap.

“Thanks,” you mumble. You shift your hand up to pinch your nostrils in an attempt to at least quell the last of the bleeding, but retract it with a bottled hiss. “God damn.”

“She got you good,” Jade says, sitting beside you. She kneads her right elbow as she bends and unbends her arm slowly. “I mean, what was she even thinking? Was she _trying_ to kill you?”

“I don’t know, is she that bloodthirsty over a game?” you ask. “Because if so, then yeah, maybe she was trying to rip me out of existence with a ball the size of my fist. How lame would that be? ‘Here Lies Dave Strider—Got Clocked By A Baseball. What A Fucking Loser’.”

“I believe she’s bloodthirsty over a number of trivial things,” Kanaya chimes, resting her chin in her palm, “but I also believe that she wouldn’t lob a baseball at your head without reason.”

Rose returns with a soft ice pack wrapped in a white hand towel, handing it to you before settling in the recliner opposite Kanaya. You press the ice to your face, wincing behind your shades.

“I dunno, think her whole assumption that I’m drooling all over her ex is enough for her to want to take me out?”

Kanaya simply shrugs, giving Rose a small look that the other reciprocates. “Possibly. Still, this is rather drastic. She knows how much power she has behind her pitches. If you hadn’t caught it, well—"

A call from further inside the house cuts her off, a distinct, drawn-out “Ro-o-osie!” causing Rose’s face to fall. Still, she calls back,

“Yes?”

“Where’s your friend?” the voice asks, drawing closer with the soft clack of heels underway. “You said he got hurt, is it John? That boy always comes here with scrapes and bruises—”

The woman stops in the entrance to the living room, staring at you wide-eyed as the drink in her hand stills. You wave a now blood-crusted hand at her lightly.

“Mother,” Rose says, “this is Dave. Dave, my mother.”

“’Sup.”

“Rosie, you said he got a _cut_.” Her mom steps into the room, briefly eyeing the now blood-printed couch and the mud-dragged steps trailing from the front door before looking back at you. Any trace of smugness in Rose’s eyes dissipates.

“No, I said he was bleeding.”

“Bleeding a _little!_ ”

“Semantics, mother.”

The woman huffs at her daughter before nearing you further. She says a quick “hi, girls” to Jade and Kanaya on the way, rounding the coffee table to sit on its edge in front of you. As she takes a short sip from her glass, she pats your knee.

“Are you alright, hun?”

“Peachy,” you respond. Then, in a more honest tone, “I’m okay.”

“I should call your parents—that would be responsible of me, right?”

At that your shoulders tense a little. You sit up a little straighter, waving a dismissive hand at her.

“Nah, don’t worry, I don’t have—”

“What’s your last name, sweetie?” she asks as she stands, already moving to speak somewhere privately, phone in hand.

Before you can turn the offer down, Jade quips your last name. The woman smiles dark-lipped in thanks and leaves the room, leaving you borderline mortified. You almost knock your knee against Jade’s in retaliation, but instead you clench your free hand in your lap.

You’re never going to hear the end of this from Bro if she can manage to get a hold of him.

Slowly, you stand, asking Rose where her bathroom is so you can clean yourself up. At her instruction, you walk upstairs to the room and close the door behind you with a foot.

You finally let your shoulders slouch as you breathe an uncomfortable sigh from your mouth. Reaching up under your shades, you thumb away some more involuntary tears, falling a little more readily now that you let them.

Before bothering to look at yourself in the mirror, you slide off your shades and put them on the counter, tossing the ice pack to settle beside them. Aside from a small break in the frame pinching your skin, the inevitable swelling of your nose made them too uncomfortable—okay, fuck that, it was getting straight-up painful—to keep over your eyes. Squinting against the bright light is nothing in comparison.

You give yourself one more moment of reprieve by twisting the knobs of the sink and scrubbing at the dried blood in the crevices of your palms and fingers. You rub water along your forearms to rid the translucent pink stripes, pinch at your elbows with wettened fingertips to rid of the dried buildup. Even after the water has run clear, you scrub at invisible flecks trapped in your cuticles.

You finally turn off the tap and watch the water disappear once your hands have turned wrinkled and pink.

This is always the worst part, you tell yourself. It always feels worse than it really is.

Telling yourself to suck it up, you finally look at yourself in the mirror.

Jesus. You inhale sharply at the sight, yet lean in closer to inspect the dark bruising under your eyes, the swelling around the bridge of your nose. The break is a gentle dip in the center of the bridge, swallowed by the puffy and tender skin around it.

The swelling always makes it look worse, you add as a second thought. The bruising under your eyes always makes you look like total hell.

You look down at your clothes and sigh, swiping a hand over the dried mess on your chest.

Man, you totally ruined this shirt.

Softly, you prod at the sides of your nose, hissing when you feel the break. It's not too bad, you think, if you take away the swelling--probably only needs a couple of adjustments, hell it can't hurt as bad as when you were ten when--

The door creaks open slowly, causing your thoughts to fall away. You look down to run the water again to get the blood off your mouth and chin.

“Damn Rose, I always took you to be prim and proper and shit, but I guess knocking isn't a huge deal around here.”

“Uh.”

You look up. John stands in the reflection, head and shoulders still freshly soaked, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. You catch his eyes in the mirror briefly before remembering your shades lying on the counter, and quickly, you duck your head again, pretending to scrub at some missed specks on your hands.

“Oh, hey Egbert. Just in time, I was about to wipe this shit off, but now that you're here we can recreate a _Rocky_ scene or something. It’d probably be a hit on Facebook, all the old people saying, ‘Look at these kids, glad they know good movies when they see them, they were raised right, give their parents an award for their spectacular service.’ It’ll be a hit with the fifty-plus age group, trust me.”

He gives a small, disbelieving laugh, leaning against the counter beside you. When you glance up, only his back is visible in the reflection.

“Maybe some other time--I have a bunch of fake blood and props at home.”

“But dude, this is fresh.”

“It probably feels gross.”

“Yeah, but I can sacrifice feeling gross for a cool photoshoot. I have my priorities straight.”

He laughs again, a little fuller this time. “Just wash your face, you nerd.”

You dip yourself lower to get your face close to the faucet. The pressure builds on your nose at the movement, but you swallow the groan building in your throat.

As you scrub at the blood and watch the water turn pink, you hear John tapping his fingers idly against the granite. You expect him to say something, but instead he falls into silence.

“You just want to keep me company, or are you itching to say something?” you ask.

“Both,” he admits. He fidgets for a moment longer before continuing, “So I talked to Vriska.”

“I saw.” You pick your head up a little to alleviate the pressure on your nose and assess the remaining mess. “Looked like you were really letting her have it."

“It was pretty stupid. I kept asking her you know, why she switched teams and broke your nose and everything and she just--” He raises his hands and drops them again in frustration. “I don't know, she just stood there, trying to play off being guilty and saying it was an accident.”

“What, the switching teams thing or the breaking my face thing?”

“The breaking your face thing.”

He peers at you as you dip your head down again to gingerly scrub at some blood around your nostrils.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Nah,” you respond automatically. “‘'S not the first time.”

“Well, I broke my arm a few times and it hurt like hell every time, so that's invalid as anything.”

“Trust me, I’ll live. Come back tomorrow and it'll be like nothing happened. Walk in all, ‘Vriska, who?’ with my face looking pristine as usual."

He hums softly. “Who knows, maybe she fixed your face.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and you scoff in response.

“You say that like there was anything to fix.”

“We-e-ell…"

You kick the side of his calf as you turn off the water, and he kicks back with a laugh.

“Man, hurting the feelings of a cripple. Low blow.”

“She broke your nose, not your legs.”

You pick your head up and close your eyes, softly prodding at the sides of your nose again. He shifts himself to sit on the counter--you hear the soft clatter of him picking up your shades.

“Aw, dude, she broke your glasses.”

“See?” you try, “she crippled me. Now I can't see shit.”

“You had your eyes open before.” He sets down your shades, and you squint a little to ensure that they're there. “Do your contacts help you or something?”

Your brows furrow slightly. “My what.”

“Your contacts,” he repeats. Blurry, he gestures at his own face. “Or do you just wear red contacts with shades for like, your dumb irony or whatever.”

You swallow. Tentatively, you open your eyes fully, the pain of your nose taking the edge off the small sting from the light.

“That would be pretty ironic, but these are just my eyes, man.”

He leans back to get a better look at you, brows drawn slightly.

“Liar--they’re totally brown. I saw them when we had that big sleepover a while ago, remember?”

You turn your head to look at him--feeling naked, letting him see your eyes squint in disbelief.

“It was the middle of the night, no shit they looked brown. It was dark as hell.”

He falls quiet as he peers at your face more. Maybe looking for the soft blue seam of a contact lens, maybe just trying to convince himself otherwise. Finally, he leans away.

“Huh. They're kinda cool--they look like M&Ms,” he concludes. “Also, your nose looks way worse up close. You sure you don't need to see a doctor?”

And that was that. You almost laugh, but instead turn to look at yourself in the mirror again, touching the bridge of your nose lightly.

“Nah, I can fix this on my own, no big.”

“Did you even take any painkillers?” he asks.

“Painkillers are for wusses, John.”

“What? No, they're for people who don't like being in pain because they're not stupid.” He slides himself off the counter back to his feet, turning to crouch in front of the cabinet below the sink. “Hold on.”

You try to close the cabinet with your foot, but he shoos it away.

“Don't bother, dude, I’m a big kid now, I can deal.”

“Uh-huh.” Without looking up at you, he waves you off, saying, “You should put the ice back on your nose.”

You do so, and you turn to lean against the counter, back facing the mirror. You watch him as he rifles through the medicine cabinet.

Something uncomfortable settles in the air at the silence. You tap your fingers idly against the counter.

“So,” you start, catching his attention, “will I always have to get a broken nose for you to talk to me, or are we gonna do that whole thing where we go back to normal and pretend you haven't spent the last week dipping your toes in and running away like I’m cold water.”

“Huh?” He looks up at you, pill bottle in hand. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, ever since this whole Vriska thing took off, you've been cagey as fuck.”

He stands again, nudging the cabinet door closed with his knee before bringing his attention to twisting off the cap. You stare at him as he fumbles with it.

“Well, yeah I haven't been talking to her as much because she's being _her_ , but--”

“Not her,” you interrupt, “I’m saying you've been cagey with _me_. Like I get that shit’s awkward between the two of you, but I don't see why that's ruining our whole thing. We were practically on our way to becoming blood brothers, man. We were gonna smear our bloody fingers together and everything.”

You watch his face flush, his brows furrow as he hands you some painkillers. You bounce them gently in your palm.

“I mean, I--” He stops to run a hand through his hair, struggling to bring his eyes to you. “I didn't think I was acting weird? But...”

He crosses his arms to silent his fidgeting. You watch him expectantly, doing nothing to quell his nerves.

“Things have been weird,” he concludes. “Like, just with this whole Vriska thing and, you know.”

“Is it just the Vriska thing?” you ask.

He raises a hand to gesture noncommittally.

“I guess?”

You watch him for a moment longer, wanting him to continue, but his silence makes you turn to the mirror instead. You pop the pills in your mouth and swallow them dryly.

You wonder if he even knows what “cagey” means, if he's even slightly aware that he's currently being the physical embodiment of the word in front of your own eyes.

You set the ice pack down.

“Hey, dude,” you say, watching him look at you in the reflection. You bring your fingers to probe the cooled sides of your nose. “You don't have a weak stomach, do you?”

“What? Why--”

You suck in a quick breath before deftly setting your nose back into place. You keep your eyes trained on John's reflection as he recoils from the _crack,_ despite your eyes misting over. You force yourself to bite back a groan and instead curl your toes painfully inside your sneakers.

“Holy shit, _why?_ ” he asks, eyes wide.

So maybe it was stupid to try adjusting your nose while it was still entirely swollen. The new pain takes its sweet time in subsiding back to its earlier base-level of “pretty goddamn horrible”, but you refuse to let on that you’re feeling anything less than fine. You pick up your shades and settle them back over your eyes, squinting as the bridge sits uncomfortably on your nose.

“I think I’m gonna head home,” you say.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but you brush past him, flicking the bathroom’s switch to turn off the lights. “I could walk back with you if you want, like if you’re not feeling--”

“Nah, I’m good, you don’t have to come.” He follows closely behind you as you pad down the stairs back into the living room.

“I think it’s still raining out,” he tries.

“A lil’ rain never hurt anyone.”

You pick up your glove from the couch beside Jade. She looks back at you, ice pack against her elbow, smiling.

“You look a lot better without all the blood on your face!”

“Really? I thought it made me look rugged as hell.”

“Well, your face was certainly uneven, if that’s what you mean,” Kanaya adds, at which Jade snickers.

“Kick a dude while he’s down,” you respond. “I see how you play.”

You look over at Rose, expecting an addition to the snark, but instead she has her head tilted slightly, listening to something far off. In the silence, you realize you can hear her mom in the other room, talking loudly, laughing at her own words.

“Rose, is your mom having an episode or something, or do you always listen in on her talking to herself?” you ask. She looks up at you, only shifting her eyes under her now frizzy bangs.

“She’s speaking with your brother,” she explains. “Although I can hardly affirm that it’s a mutual conversation.”

You feel your jaw set. “Why’s that?”

She settles into the chair, bringing her attention fully to the room again before shrugging. “She’s inebriated. I’m not sure your brother is able to get a word in edgewise.”

“He probably hung up on her.” You slip your mitt under your arm, jutting a thumb to the front door. “Guess I’ll go check that out.”

“You’re welcome to stay if you’d like,” Rose says.

“Yeah,” John starts, having walked around to lean against the couch’s back, “who knows, maybe you have a concussion or something.”

“I’ll live,” you reply shortly. You give a small wave to the room as you move to turn to the door. “Later.”

Among the soft goodbyes, you catch Rose’s eyes before turning away completely. It’s a small flicker--a look to John and back at you, some sparkle of questioning or knowing that makes you pause momentarily--but you don’t indulge her for long. Soon enough, you’re back in the grey drizzle.

The walk home leaves your shoulders damp again. When you step inside your house, you toss your glove beside the door and kick off your sneakers, feeling the discomfort of your wet socks fully. All you want is to curl up in bed and try to sleep off some of the pain, but as you start to trudge up the stairs, Bro’s voice stops you.

“Bro,” he says. You look over the railing at him, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen. He must have been hiding out where you couldn’t see him.

“‘Sup,” you offer.

He beckons you over with a finger, and you swallow down a sigh as you step off the stairs and pad over to him. He uncrosses his arms once you’re close enough.

“Some lady called,” he says, reaching out to push your shades into your hair. “Told me you got pretty fucked up.”

You squint a little. “Are those your words or her’s?”

“Dude, I didn’t know what she was saying. Sounded drunk off her ass.” He steps a little closer to comfortably hold your face in his hands, inspecting the damage. “I hung up on her.”

“I knew it.” You let a fraction of a smirk pull at your lips. “She was still running her mouth when I left.”

He huffs a short breath through his nose--the closest thing to a laugh that you’ve ever witnessed from him. “Lady knows how to talk.”

He presses the pads of his thumbs gently against the tender skin under your eyes before feeling along the sides of your nose. Determined not to wince or hiss, you clench your fists at your sides.

“So,” he starts, “what’d you do?”

You shrug softly, despite the question catching you off-guard. He usually never asks--to be fair, he usually doesn’t check up on you after getting hurt--and you deliberate telling him the truth of the matter before shooing the idea away.

“Got in a fight,” you say. “Really let the other guy have it.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, and you hold your breath as you feel him prod the break. “And you still let him land a punch on you?”

“I had a moment of compassion. Let the dude hit me before I totally kicked his ass, because I’m just a soft-hearted dude at heart, Bro. The kid never had a chance.”

He hums in response. “That was stupid.”

“Maybe, but what can I say? Maybe now I gave him the confidence to go and learn how to actually pick fights instead of waltzing around with his thumbs tucked in his fists trying to bring down anyone who walks in his way--”

He pushes suddenly on your nose, causing you to hiss out an airy “mother _fucker_ ” as he adjusts it fully. The _crunch_ resounding through your skull makes your stomach lurch again unexpectedly.

As he takes a step back to make sure he did your nose some justice, he lets his hands fall back to his sides.

“Lady told me it was a baseball,” he says. Before you can respond, he brushes past you, mind already focused on the next thing. “You know where the ice is.”

With that, you hear him retreat upstairs to his room.

After preparing another ice pack, you finally trudge upstairs to your room, peeling your socks off with your toes and leaving them behind as balls on the floor. You strip out of your dampened clothes slowly, reciting a silent eulogy for your wrecked shirt, before settling for sweatpants and the comfort of your bed.

The sting of the ice would have kept you from falling asleep if you weren’t so damn tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dave boy needs a good nap.
> 
> anyways hey!! hope you all enjoyed this chapter. now for some news: i'll be starting school again next week, so chapters probably won't be a weekly occurrence from here on out. if i leave this alone for a few weeks at a time, don't worry--i haven't abandoned it! (hopefully). 
> 
> kudos, comments, etc. are appreciated! thank you all so much. 
> 
> hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com


	10. a conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out this wonderful [chapter four fanart](http://harveychan.tumblr.com/post/151368470139/for-spacepuck-from-her-fic-play-ball-chapter) made by harvey :-)

SENT: so basically

SENT: thats how the dude who invented kraft cheese singles could have been the mastermind behind the sinking of the titanic

SENT:  like sure that motherfucker of an iceberg took the ship down physically but we have to look at all the angles here

SENT: never just one dude behind a crime you know

RECEIVED: I’m absolutely riveted by your dissertation about James Kraft’s plausibly shady past, however I must note that that was possibly the longest tangent I’ve allowed for you to go on in order to avoid a topic of discussion.

SENT: i didnt avoid shit i was laying out cold stone theories

SENT: are you trying to knock years of work and research out of my poor poverty stricken hands

RECEIVED:  Tell me, Dave.

RECEIVED: Was it the similarities in first names that triggered your descent into the maddening underground links between food industries and boat manufacturing during the early twentieth century, or did you simply give up on the possibility of a more opportune time to describe to me your theory in detail?

SENT: lalonde im sensing another bullshit psych session 

RECEIVED: And I’m sensing another bullshit response.

RECEIVED:  “Rose, I have no idea what you mean, I just wanted so horribly to cease our discussion of John, formerly known as my new best friend, in order to instead discuss my thoroughly-researched conspiracy theory.”

SENT:  what do you mean

SENT: goddamn it

RECEIVED: So?

SENT:  cut the “formerly known as” thing 

SENT: he’s still my best friend

RECEIVED: Is that so? It seems that John has been convinced otherwise.

SENT: what

SENT:  wait seriously

RECEIVED:  From my speculation, yes. He’s been rather gloomy, eyeing the empty left field in spectacled sorrow.

SENT:  you sure hes not just bummed because hes down two players 

RECEIVED: I’m sure that has something to do with it, but I have a feeling that he’s missing the company of his quick-favored shortstop more.

SENT:  the dude knows where i live

SENT:  he can drop by whenever he wants to see this beautiful mangled mug

RECEIVED: Your face is reminiscent of a romantic tragedy.

SENT:  yeah its got a real leaving las vegas vibe going on

RECEIVED: Leaving Las Vegas?

SENT: ugh god its a trainwreck of a movie that egbert made me sit through

RECEIVED: Interesting.

SENT:  dont 

RECEIVED: Hm?

SENT:  nothing just

SENT:  i was going to tell you not to look into that past surface level but i know youre already tit deep in the murky depths of freuds dead ass

RECEIVED:  Oh, not to worry. I was only questioning your negative critique, not your immediate reference to a film you watched with John despite voicing your distaste for it. 

RECEIVED: Although, now that you mention it, it is quite interesting that you didn’t reference a romantic tragedy that you assumingly do enjoy or are at least more familiar with—Titanic, perhaps—and so I wonder, why choose Leaving Las Vegas, Dave? 

SENT: christ

SENT: dont you have a game to get back to or something

RECEIVED: I suppose the others are becoming discontented at my mediocre first-baseman performance today.

SENT: youre going to get hit with one of karkats foul balls and join the fucked up face club if you keep that up

RECEIVED:  That would be tragic, wouldn’t it?

RECEIVED:  Get well soon, Dave. We’re all hoping for your speedy recovery.

SENT: thanks 

SENT:  ttyl

You slouch back into your desk chair, swiveling the seat gently side to side with the push of your heels. The day has hardly sunk its teeth into the afternoon, but you’ve been awake for hours.

The past four days have been filled with some variation of the “get well soon” dialogue. But as each text drops emptily back into quick silence—on your end, back into fidgeting, bored sleep, on theirs, back to a game that they insist you would be better off avoiding for another couple weeks—you can’t help but feel a little stumped, a little lonely, without the constant flow of conversation keeping you company. 

You can’t even say that Bro’s usual lurking is any form of reprieve as you’ve come to realize that the dude’s never home. Regardless, the decision between tense, half-truthed conversation and silence isn’t exactly a decision you would want to make, so maybe it’s for the best. 

...

Fuck it, you might _actually_ rather have him around, even just to hear him mumble weirdly under his breath over projects and bills and whatever the hell else he busies himself with these days.

Being home blows.

The pain under your eyes is nothing, despite the bruising having gone from an aggressive blue to a dark, pulsing purple. Your nose has become an afterthought under the fuzz of unmarked painkillers placed quietly in the drawer of your desk (your brother’s way of saying, “I might give a shit about you, but can’t express it in a way that doesn’t require me to sneak OxyContin from the Rite-Aid pharmacist with nothing left to lose, only to leave it in your room for you to find on your own”. You just feel lucky that he was kind enough to hide it in your desk rather than tied to a branch outside your window or placed in the sink pipes.) 

You wonder briefly what it would be like to try playing ball with your head cloudy and knees two hooves away from gelatin, the height of taking too many pills for the hell of it, but the thought of another baseball coming at your face makes you squint and nix the idea altogether. The glove tossed haphazardly onto your pile of grass-stained, muddied, and now somewhat bloodied clothes probably feels just as lonely as you do. 

Like hell any of them would let you play now. They’d probably be too afraid to let you stand out in the field, might even cast those godawful pity-glances at you while they drove the ball neatly into the infield. You’d go back to picking at dandelions trapped under your sneakers and they wouldn’t say a word about it.

...If you two were talking, this would be about the time John would call you melodramatic. He’d probably toss in an asterisk-encased eye roll for good measure.

You can’t give the dude much flak—he _has_ been texting you, but in jagged “hope you’re feeling betters” and “talk to you soons,” all the while keeping your conversations short and superficial (if you see one more “hehe” from him you might actually somersault into outer space). 

You figure he’s just tiptoeing around you to avoid the inevitable conversation of him being a cagey fuck, maybe waiting for the pain to blow over so you can just feel happy being in his company again and nothing else. Which, you know, would be fine if you were the type of guy to feign forgiveness and forgetfulness to avoid an awkward conversation. 

But you’re not, and he knows better; he knows that you’re not going to let up on the issue, no matter how much he wants you to just cozy on up to him again. 

Which just makes this all the more frustrating.

With a small huff, you grab your phone and send him the shitty “John Cage” image you whipped up two days ago in a pain-fueled trip to Photoshop. You almost toss it back onto your bed to be forgotten for another few hours, but instead it buzzes in your hand, screen blinking quickly back to life.

RECEIVED:  dave!!! look out your window :o

You squint at the time—it’s hardly past three, and the sun’s actually made an appearance once or twice today, so you can’t imagine the game being over yet—but another hurrying text forces you to slip on your chipped shades and step onto the balcony.

When you peer over, you find Jade waiting for you alone on your front lawn, looking up at you expectantly.

“Rapunzel’s tower is closed today,” you call down to her. “Princess is tired of everyone tugging on her hair.”

“Lame! Everyone misses Rapunzel,” she calls back.

“Yeah, well, I guess I can take a message for her. What do you want?”

You watch her shoulders slouch with a dramatic huff. “Dave!”

You smirk down at her before leaning comfortably against the banister on your forearms. 

“What are you even doing here? Figured the game would go on until sundown like usual.”

“Well, some people had to leave early—Kanaya had to help her mom with something, Sollux had to go to the dentist, Karkat was being _Karkatier_ than usual—” 

She ticks each point off with a finger, other hand planted firmly at her side. 

“—so we figured that we should call it a day. Can’t really play a game with only five people!”

“That sucks. I’m sure everyone’s real heartbroken over it.”

At that, she shrugs. “It’s not the end of the world. John’s kind of butthurt about it, but you know him.”

You stare down at her, and she moves to respond before you can change the subject—and she does so loudly, distinct enough to make the birds in the trees regard her momentarily.

“ _Speaking_ of which, what’s going _on_ with you guys lately? Are you still not talking?” 

Quickly, you hold your hands up to shush her. 

“Geez, Harley, no need to alert the neighborhood. Besides, we’re fine. Everything’s chill with me and Egbert.”

“Uh, yeah right!” 

You look away from her to peer in the direction of John’s house before beckoning her with a jutted thumb. 

“Just—the front door’s open, dude, just come in.”

When she disappears from your sight, you let a small sigh loosen itself from your chest. In a moment you hear her excited footfalls disrupt the quiet of the house, and soon she’s in your room, looking first at you as you walk away from the balcony, then at your belongings clumped together on the floor. 

“Your room’s a mess!”

“Like yours is any better.”

She rolls her eyes and tosses her glove onto your bed. “So what’s actually going on with you guys?”

“Better question: why do people keep thinking something’s going on with us?” you ask, crossing your arms lazily across your ribs. “Y’all are treating us like we were the world’s number one power couple that posted a couple of questionable subtweets about one another so now everyone’s in a fuckin’ tizzy and speculating who cheated on who and who’s gonna get the kids.”

“Because you guys were so close, and now...” She gestures her hands emptily, eyes exasperated. 

You nudge a balled up sock on the floor with your toes. Sighing shortly through your nose, you decide you’ll take the bait, get reeled into this stupid conversation like a slippery trout.

“How obvious is it?” you ask.

“For the past like, two weeks you guys have just been off! John’s been _so_ off his game the past few days, you two are hardly talking to each other anymore—” You watch the frustration bud in the arch of her brows, the way her hands drop fitfully back to her sides. “You guys were really close and then suddenly, poof!”

“The whole Vriska thing is still throwing the dude for a loop, you know that.”

“That doesn’t explain why he’s not talking to _you!_ I can understand why he’s not talking to _her_ , but you?”

You know she’s right—the Vriska excuse is running thin, fast. Still, you do nothing but shift your weight from foot to foot.

“Harley, we’re fine. Our friendship hasn’t spontaneously combusted and set the state on fire.”

She sits on the edge of your bed in a huff, crossing her arms tightly. “When was the last time you two hung out? Not at the games, just like, I dunno, did fun bro stuff together?”

You know the answer to this: just shy of two weeks ago, before Vriska dropped the bomb on John and inevitably led you to where you currently stand. You don’t say this, though; Jade instead pushes further.

“I mean, it’s just _so_ obvious that something’s up—John seems pretty upset, you know.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know why,” you say. “He hasn’t said dick to me.”

“ _Ugh_.” She pushes some fallen strands of her hair back, brows drawn together. “You two are impossible—I need to talk to him.”

Before she lets you get a word out, about how maybe this isn’t her business (a half-truth), or maybe there isn’t anything wrong at all (a full lie), she pulls out her phone and types rapidly with her thumbs. You’re sure that John is on the receiving end of what looks to be some fiery messages. You can only imagine how he's responding to her.

You almost think you’re off the hook until she sets her phone down again and looks back up to you, eyes still fervid, brows still framing her frustration.

“I want you two to talk to each other in person—no more texting b.s.!”

“Alright—” 

“Tonight!”

“Uh.” You feel your façade break as your brows draw slightly. “Why tonight?”

“Because I want you to promise me that you two will get this sorted out as soon as possible—for your own dumb-butt sake.” She stands, grabbing her glove and tucking it under her arm. “Time-constraints are a pretty good motivator!” 

“Alright, and what if we _don’t_ talk tonight?” you challenge. 

“Then I’ll kick _both_ of your asses.” 

You have to swallow back a laugh, if only because you know that she could probably beat the shit out of both of you, so instead you raise your hands languidly in defeat. 

“Alright, alright, Harley. No need to bare your teeth. Down, girl.”

She rolls her eyes, but you watch a smile creep over her and soften her flame. Before she turns to leave, she sticks out her hand to you, pinky outstretched. 

“Promise me, Dave. Tonight?”

She regards you sternly again. Unable to refuse, you reach out and hook your pinky loosely around hers.

“Yeah, promise.”

\--

Jade’s going to murder you both.

The two of you had, again, danced around one another, having loose conversations dotted with emptiness, despite her lecturing. It’s not on purpose, at least not on your end—you had quickly realized that, with only a shitty Nic Cage-John Egbert monstrosity of a photo as your only backup, you couldn’t _really_ bring yourself to prompt the meeting yourself. 

Was the photo the perfect concoction of shitty and clever? Absolutely. 

Was it fair that it was probably pushing the dude into a corner? Not really, so you retire the picture, at least until less serious matters ask you to wield it again. 

Still, every time you try to reach out with real words, even an unsent “hey maybe we should talk” makes you set the phone down out of nerves. 

It’s nearing on three days since Jade gave you a talking-to. Her texts have become ravenous—“why haven’t you two talked yet??” “i’m still waiting for you two to patch things up :(” “WOULD YOU TWO JUST TALK ALREADY?? GEEZ!!!”—and yet she still hasn’t stormed her way over to your house to beat some sense into you. While you're a little thankful she didn't stay true to her word, you would rather not challenge it further. 

Besides, you know she’s right. You’re being a fucking pansy. 

The sun has long-set, only solidifying your cycling thoughts that yes, John is probably home, no, he’s probably not asleep yet, and yes, this would be the perfect time to reach out to him. 

And yet, you stare at the half-written text to him, thumb hovering over the backspace icon. 

Just do it, you tell yourself. _You’re_ the one that’s been wanting him to talk anyway, so why is this so difficult? Just send him those five dumb words and get this over with—

Suddenly, your phone buzzes in your hand, startling you out of your thoughts. 

RECEIVED: hey. meet me outside?

You blink at the text. Then you stand, leaning to peer out your window, and sure enough, there he is, standing in the darkened street with his phone lighting his face. You watch as he reaches up to adjust his glasses. 

Well, shit. Do thine eyes deceive you.

As you turn to slip into your sneakers and a hoodie, you send him a quick “yea one sec” and make your way downstairs. You decide to forgo your shades for the night.

The house has been quiet—you’re not sure if Bro is even home—but you send him a text anyway. Like a good suburbian kid, you guess.

SENT: going out

SENT:  dw i didnt get myself kidnapped

[And you’re off.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBMwwJMkcRA)

You meet him at the corner where the street sign juts out crooked from the lawn. His head snaps up from looking at his phone, and before the screen goes dark you see him smile, soft and awkward. You raise a hand in greeting.

“Um,” he starts, before turning on his heel to face the direction of his home, eyes trying and failing to stay in contact with yours. “Sandlot?”

“Sure, man.”

The two of you walk in tense silence. He walks slightly ahead of you as usual, but tonight his strides are agitated, at times seeming to try and drive his body far away from you, but just barely keeping themselves contained enough to keep you close by. You try to keep your own walking smooth, but you can feel it, too—the anxiety of the situation suddenly picking at your skin, making your heart thud too loudly behind your bones. 

You’re not sure why you’re nervous. Maybe because he so obviously is, maybe because his nerves are emanating from him and digging deep into your pores. Maybe because there’s a weightiness that you can feel, but can’t pinpoint. 

The sandlot is dark when you two duck through the broken fence, wade through the taller-still grasses. The lights inside Rose’s house serve as a beacon as John leads you past the infield, past the backstop, to the dilapidated dugout. 

It’s when he starts hoisting himself up that you finally speak.

“Jesus, Egbert, that thing’s going to collapse under your ass.”

“No it won’t,” he says back, sitting on top of the creaking planks with some finality. He looks down at you expectantly. “This thing is practically made out of steel.”

“Yeah, until a breeze hits it the wrong way. Then the whole thing falls down and all the little piggies go squealing for shelter. This just in: we’re the fucking piggies.”

You waggle your fingers at him, at which he rolls his eyes before beckoning you up with a hand. 

“Come on, it’ll be fine. Don’t be a wimp.” 

You lay a hand on the thick overhang, feeling out the wood with a press of your palm. 

“Fine. But if I get more broken bones, your ass is getting sent through the paper shredder along with all your dollars.”

“I think my ass is going to turn out just fine, thanks.”

Cautiously, you hoist yourself up, feeling the wooden slats under your feet as he moves himself. Aside from some well-placed creaks, you suppose sitting on the thing won’t kill you. 

You sit beside him, letting your legs dangle off the side, heels brushing the dugout’s back wall. 

The katydids seem loud tonight. 

“So,” he says, clearing his throat of nothing, “I heard Jade got to you, too.”

“Oh, yeah. She put on the ‘disappointed mom’ act real nice. Made me believe that she brought me into this world and that she was gonna take me out of it in a span of ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” He snorts bitterly. “She spent almost an hour lecturing me. And she’s _still_ probably going to kick my ass.”

“Probably. Do you think she can beat us if we both take her on?”

“Absolutely.”

“Damn.”

He breathes a quiet laugh through his nose. You brush your hands over your jeans, feeling the cold of the night starting to sink in.

“So, uh, how’s your face?” he asks. 

“Beautiful as ever. Fuckin’ pristine. Jesus weeps on the daily because it’s that good.”

“No, dumbass, I meant—how’s your _nose_ feeling?”

“Like chipped fine China.” 

“Mm.”

“Sucks that it’s keeping me from playing, though,” you continue, leaning back on your hands. “I mean, being holed up in my room isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Like, do I get to chill by my lonesome all day? Sure, and that’s fine and all, but I think it’s a little greedy of me to keep all this cool from my usual audience, you know? Kind of like hiding the multivitamins in the cabinet until the kids get all pale and sickly from a drop in vitamin C.” 

You bump his elbow with yours lightly, causing him to look at you.

“Are you feeling weak, John? Feeling a lack of cool in your life? Need the classic Strider vitamin boost to get to peak coolness again?” 

He grins shortly. “Actually, I think I got cooler without your dumb butt around.”

“That’s bullshit. That goes against scientific theory, dude.”

“Says who?”

“Says me, the science man himself. Bill Nye’s got nothing on me.”

A small laugh bubbles from him, making your chest feel a little lighter. But only for a moment—you know what you’re both here for. When his laugh dies down, you nudge him again, this time bumping the side of his foot with yours.

“Besides,” you start, “I’ve heard from some anonymous sources that you’ve been pretty off your game.”

He falls quiet at that, a little hum dying in his throat. He turns his head to scan the treeline, as if trying to pinpoint the buzz of the cicadas.

“It sucks that summer’s ending soon,” he says suddenly.

“Uh,” you respond. “I mean, I guess so, yeah.”

“This summer’s been pretty great, you know?" he continues. "I mean, yeah, except for all the drama, but there’s _always_ drama. It just means that there’s stuff going on!”

You raise a brow at him that he can’t see. This isn’t what you expected, but you let him go on. 

“And I don’t know, I guess it’s weird that we’re going to be _juniors_ soon. It’s kind off—I don’t know, exciting? Or, um.” He’s worrying his lip with his teeth, you can tell. “Scary, maybe.”

You hum softly in response. You hadn’t even thought of the fast-approaching school year—you hardly even realized August had officially begun in your absence. 

“Is that what’s getting you down?” you ask. “School stuff, I mean.”

“Huh? Oh, no, not really.” He shrugs, starting to swing his legs slowly. “I mean, I guess my dad’s been bringing up college stuff.”

“Gross.”

“I know,” he laughs, soft. “He keeps asking if I’m going to play for like, a college team. Or, it seems like he’s asking—he keeps leaving around printouts and pamphlets and everything kind of suggesting that that’s the direction I’m going in.”

“Well, are you? Isn’t that like, your thing?”

At that, he heaves a sigh. 

“I guess? I don’t know, the baseball thing just sort of...” 

You watch him splay his hands emptily, trying to find the words. He soon gives up, in turn running his fingers through his mussed hair. 

“Like, don’t get me wrong, I love baseball—I’ve been playing since I was a kid, was raised with Mariner blood in me like all my forefathers. But sometimes, I dunno, I feel like sometimes people forget that I’m, you know. _Not_ always ‘the baseball kid’ or whatever.”

He slouches slightly, toying at the frayed ends of a tear in his jeans. You turn to face him more, pulling your leg nearest him close to your chest. 

“I mean, I know you’re into movies and stuff,” you offer. “And you were kind of telling me about programming that one time when your Xbox quit on us.” 

“Mhm.”

“And you know you play a killer piano.” He does—god, the shit you want to do with his piano samples given then chance. “Like, you’ve got options, dude. You’re not superglued to the baseball shtick.” 

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, quietly, a breath as he leans back on his hands, “I almost quit baseball—like, in the eighth grade, right before I started high school.”

You raise your brows. “Really? What, you got tired of it?”

“Not really, it was, uh.” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Okay, don’t laugh, but I was also kind of a theater kid in middle school. And part of my freshman year.”

Oh. You can’t help it—you do laugh, a gentle snort behind a smirk. He turns to look at you in exasperation, at which you raise a defensive hand. 

“Dave!”

“No, dude, I mean. I can see it. You didn’t exactly hide the playbills and songbooks from plain sight or anything.”

His shoulders lose their tension at that, and after your smirk fully fades he turns his attention back to his feet. 

“Okay, well—I was doing both at the same time. Which wasn’t a huge deal in middle school, I guess, but once I tried doing them both in high school—”

“Didn’t have the time?” you interject.

“Well, that, and, uh.” He shrugs, fidgeting with his hands before he decides to lean back on them. “I mean, people are kind of shitty at school.”

You stare at him. He glances at you and then away, letting out another exasperated sigh. 

“I kind of liked theater more, but—you know what they say about theater kids, especially guys. That we’re, you know, gay or whatever.”

He practically spits the word—not out of venom, but nerves, a burst of energy. Slowly, you let your leg dangle again, keeping your eyes on him as he looks in the direction of Rose’s house. Away from you. His foot bobs rapidly beside yours.

It takes a moment, but you break the silence.

“Okay?” you say. You watch his shoulders pinch in response. “It’s not a bad thing, dude.”

“No, no, I know—that’s not the point,” he groans.

“It kind of is, though.” Though he can’t see, you gesture with a hand, accentuating your words. “Like, you had the choice between some stereotypically damning shit—either be the theater kid and get ridiculed by some assholes or be the fucking MVP baseball player and have no one fuck with you. Obviously you’re gonna choose the one with least harassing potential.” You lay your hand flat on your thigh. "But at what cost, you know? Especially if you're not even..." 

His foot continues to bob nervously. In turn, you nudge its side with yours again. 

“What’s got your nerves bugging out, Egbert? Your foot’s malfunctioning.” 

He sighs, finally turning his head back to regard the trees in front of you again. 

“If I had never stuck with baseball,” he says, “I would have never met you. You know that, right?”

You pause. “Well, yeah. What about it?”

“And, I just—” He stops himself, pressing his hands against his face to groan. “God, this is going to sound so stupid.”

“Lay it on me.”

After a moment, he lays his hands in his lap, finally turning his head to look at you. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m glad I met you, I guess? I mean, I don’t _guess_ , I _am_ happy, and, uh.” 

He stops to sigh, to reach under his specs to scrub at his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. You feel the tips of your ears warm dumbly at the confirmation; you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smirking.

“And I’m sorry that the past couple of weeks have been messed up,” he continues. “Like, you totally caught me, back when you were bleeding all over Rose’s bathroom—it’s not just the Vriska thing that’s been bothering me. But, I don’t really know what else it is, either.”

You watch him expectantly, waiting for him to clarify, because no shit it wasn’t just the Vriska stuff bothering him. He waves a hand emptily, trying to find the words.

“It has to do with her still, I guess,” he tries. “She said something to me a couple weeks ago that’s been messing with me. That I was, um. Leading you on, or something.” 

When you manage to catch his eyes directly, he looks away. You find yourself toying with a loose thread at the hem of your hoodie, twisting it tightly around your fingertip. 

You wait for him to turn around and clarify further—“but I wasn’t, she was just being stupid” or “she always reads too far into these things”—but instead you’re met with prolonged silence. No matter how deeply you try to burrow your vision into the back of his skull to make him turn around and speak again, he doesn’t.

He starts bobbing his foot again.

You feel your pulse thudding in your ears. 

“Wait, Egbert, are you saying—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he concludes abruptly. “What I meant to get to was—I know Rose and Jade have been saying stuff like, doubting that we’re even friends anymore. And I just want to say that they’re wrong—that you’re still one of my best friends, and I’m sorry that I’ve been, you know, acting weird.”

“Cagey,” you say.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Sorry I’ve been cagey.” 

“ _John_ Cagey—”

A quick laugh bursts from him, a release of nerves escaping the center of his chest. He shoves your shoulder, making you brace yourself with your hand. “No, fuck you. I can’t believe you even _made_ that.”

You let yourself laugh shortly. It comes out wrong, almost like a choke, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You feel your cheeks flush regardless.

“These hands were made for creating only the finest of artwork, Egbert.”

Something is making your chest feel tight. An unpracticed sailor forgetting to untie his boat from the dock and letting the rope strain taught. A mechanic fine-tuning the small screws, over-twisting the screwdriver out of habit.

When the silence comes back, it drifts like a fog. Not discomforting, but as the two of you lean back onto your hands again to focus on the stars poking behind some clouds, you find yourself still scurrying to fit his words together, deconstructing and rebuilding them, not focusing so much on the sky but rather the person you’re sharing it with.

You realize he hardly told you what’s been bothering him. Little things, maybe, but the large void he left with an unconvincing “it doesn’t matter”…

The thought makes your skin feel warm.

The thought makes your skin feel too warm and you don’t know what to do about it except roll your sleeves to your elbows to feel the night set in full.

Suddenly—or maybe not, as the stars have shifted in pieces by the time you’re pulled from your thoughts—you feel a hand brush yours, and just as quickly pull away, like a ghost passing through a familiar place. 

You turn your head to look at him. He looks down at his hand (your hand?) before returning the gaze. 

“I should probably head back,” he says. He tilts his head to gesture in the direction of his home. “My dad’s probably getting worried.”

“Oh,” you say. Then, more clearly, shooing the fog away, “Dude, you didn’t tell your dad where you were going? For shame, Egbert. Thought you were a better son than that.”

He rolls his eyes before grinning toothily. “I’m such a rebel sometimes.”

“Yeah, real hardcore.”

He swings his legs back onto the roof, turning to shimmy himself off of the dugout. When he lands with a final creak and a thud, you turn your head to look at him, or rather his dark silhouette, marred only by the gleam of his glasses. 

“You coming?” he asks from below.

You regard the stars one more time before following suit, landing quietly beside him. He leads you out, but this time his strides, though still long, seem more at peace, like cool breezes as they part the tall grasses, as they whisk by the string of silenced houses on 266th. When he parts at his street, after sending you a shadowed wave and hushed “see you later”, you listen for the familiar squeak of his front door opening, the gentle click of its closing, before finally letting out a buried breath. 

You walk slowly down the next three blocks, letting only the sound of the katydids accompany you on your trek home. When you find yourself at the end of your driveway, you don’t bother heading inside right away. Instead, you sit on your front steps, feeling out the rough edges of the stone with your fingertips, and shut your eyes despite the nighttime.

The rolling breezes do nothing to cool the heat on the back of your neck. The hidden frogs chirping in the hedges don’t keep your mind from reeling, your heart trying again to crawl out of your ears. As you glide your hands over your forehead into the depths of your frizzed hair, you dip your head low. 

Fuck, you think.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

The cicadas buzz endlessly, nearby and disguised in insouciance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy.
> 
> sorry for the delay on this--the semester's been pretty hectic so far. i hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com


	11. pull hitter

“Well?” Jade asks. She sits to your right, cross-legged as she rocks thoughtfully on Rose’s dark recliner. “Do you think you like him back?”

“I never said he even liked me, Harley—just that he, you know.”

Rose sits to your left on the mirroring recliner, eying your silence as you let your words hang. You, sitting on the stark white couch that you had bled on only a week ago, sitting on top of the faded and splotched evidence of your injury, which by now has settled only to a dull nuisance. 

Sitting there under their scrutiny, you start to think that asking for Rose’s advice was a mistake. She had insisted that you come talk to her in person, conveniently leaving out the fact that Jade had stayed the night and would eagerly be in on the conversation. 

“He may have insinuated it,” Rose clarifies. She folds her hands in her lap in the careful way she does. “I find it curious that he didn’t elaborate on his feelings about Vriska’s accusation.”

You slouch into the cushions. “Maybe the guy’s just tired of talking about her.”

“Or, maybe he’s not telling you something,” Jade counters. 

“I just doubt—”

“Regardless of his feelings towards you,” Rose interrupts, “you sidestepped Jade’s question.”

“What?” You struggle to find a comfortable position on the couch. Their attention on you—though you’ll admit that you usually enjoy, and even seek out their attention on most days—makes you want to bolt out the door. “You mean about liking the dude back?”

Rose gives a small nod. 

“I mean—” And you sigh, again, for the hundredth time. You want to reject your hand as it comes up to push through your hair in thought, in frustration, but you let your fingers thread through the kinks. “Of course I like him, he’s my best friend, but—”

You force yourself to keep your knees from bobbing. Rose feeds off of your anxiety, bottles it up and saves it in her mother’s liquor cabinet for when she needs her next fix. Jade, her loyal confidant, prods at it relentlessly.

“But?” Jade prompts, fully engaged. Her chin rests in her propped hands as she leans sideways on the recliner to stare you down through her glasses.

“But,” you start slowly—you feel like you’re about to trip around your teeth in the way he does sometimes, until you heave a quiet breath through your nose, remove your fingers from your hair and sit up straighter. Despite hiding behind your shades, you still can’t get yourself to meet their eyes. “Look, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not that big a deal.”

Jade groans loudly beside you. “Yes it is!” she insists. “You know, for someone who complains about _cagey_ people, you’re being kind of hypocritical!”

You start to respond, but Rose beats you to it.

“I don’t believe Dave has had enough time to process and organize his thoughts,” she says faux-delicately to Jade as she keeps her eyes trained on you. “This call to meeting seemed rather rushed and impromptu.” 

“My thoughts are just fine. Crystal as all your mom’s weird little glass wizards combined.”

She smirks—smirks in that damn way that make her eyes glint, subdued and only noticeable if you watch carefully—before directing her words to you again. 

“Dave, can you tell me how you were feeling last night? After John insinuated some delicate information, that is.”

You move to cross your arms over your chest, but the thought of her saying that it’s a classic gesture of defensiveness and insecurity flashes across your mind, so you keep them stubbornly still by your sides out of spite. 

“Lalonde, you should have taken the fact that I texted you at six in the morning as a sign that, I dunno, sleep deprivation took hold of all of my cognitive functions and made me its bitch. You knew better than to feed into its emotional shell, but instead you gave in and fed the ugly beast, and now I’m here. Do you think I remember walking here? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

Jade rolls her eyes, but Rose keeps hers steadily on you, unwavering. 

“And why couldn’t you sleep last night?” she asks. 

“Insomnia.”

“I see.” She crosses a leg over the other, chin resting in the flat of her curled hand. “Do you know what triggered this particular bout?” 

You find yourself slouching again, starting to toy with the hem of your shirt. “Egbert’s little stint last night made me miss my show. Got me hells of depressed.”

She hums lightly. When you bring your eyes to her again, she’s looking down at her phone, scrolling smoothly. 

“So,” she starts as her thumb stops, “when you texted me this morning saying, and I quote, ‘Rose I know it’s hells of early and usually I’d be sending you some shitty underground memes to pass the time—‘”

“Which I did,” you interrupt, but you can feel the heat starting to creep onto your cheeks regardless.

“‘—but I think Egbert just tried to tell me some pretty feelsy shit and it’s been fucking me up for hours, so I think I need your weirdo psych prowess to unfuck my head up,’ when you texted me this, are you sure the issue on the forefront of your mind was the sorrow of missing your show?”

You sigh, knowing she’s backed you into a corner. “Low blow using my words against me, man. Taking my most vulnerable moments—”

Jade reaches over and lands a soft smack on the outside of your knee to stop you. 

“Dave,” she complains, “come on.” 

You start to retort, but her pleading stare makes you go mum for a moment. 

There’s really no fighting them now—the two will wrestle you to the ground to get anything out of you before you can step foot out the door—so you sit up straight again, giving Jade a look before passing it on to Rose. 

“Alright, fine—you got me, trapped like a bunny in a shitty snare. Can really feel my guts starting pool under my skin, so I hope you two are happy.”

They look at you expectantly instead of divulging in your metaphor. Fine. You feel your palms start to clam up, but you swallow and continue.

“I mean, the dude is my best bro. I don’t want to say that things are serious, but if he wanted to shove a spoonful of wasabi in his mouth for kicks, I’d do it too so he wouldn’t look like a crybaby by himself.” 

“Romantic,” Jade deadpans, earning a half-hearted swing of your leg in her direction. “Hey— I’m just saying, but you _did_ tell me once that bros have to be a little into each other, right?”

“Yeah, and then you got it in your head that he has a crush on me.”

“Okay, so? How into him are you?” she asks. 

You start to retort, say that that’s a loaded question, but Rose interrupts, saying, “I think a more conductive conversation to have would be discussing how your feelings for him—platonic or not—fall under this ‘bro cause.’”

“As in?”

“As in, you seem to justify your feelings towards him by saying you feel such a way because of your friendship.” She shrugs minutely. “Which makes enough sense to certain extents, but I would suggest looking into your more recent emotional developments towards him with some scrutiny.”

Recent emotional developments. You almost scoff, if only because she has no idea. You didn’t detail the emotional rollercoaster that John had sent you into unbuckled and unsupervised last night when you texted her as the sky started turning blue. 

You’ll admit to yourself that you spent much of the following hours after the conversation sitting outside on your front steps, contemplating your surge of worry—or maybe it was confusion, just something not immediately describable—while also wishing that the kid would suddenly appear on your front lawn to clarify things unsaid. But he didn’t, and you knew that he wouldn’t. You knew he was sleeping soundly three blocks away. Soundly because he thinks he’s cleared the situation up, soundly because your friendship has been mended.

Soundly because he isn’t tossing and turning over the idea of a crush. 

Besides, it was for the best he didn’t return to clarify in the middle of the night. You’re not sure your heart would have survived round two. 

When you did finally trudge back inside to an empty house, you couldn’t rest. You sat on your bed, at your desk, paced the balcony, paced your bedroom floor, cycling through the motions until lying down and at least trying to sleep was your final option. Until that, too, didn’t work, and you were left staring across the room at the mitt he had given you, waiting for its next use as a sheen of dust started to dull its color. Left staring at the blue shirt that he had lent you weeks before, draped and long-crinkled over a now-familiar bedpost. 

It sucked tossing and turning and worrying all night over a dude that was dead asleep. Worse, you had Vriska pulling the “leading him on” line on repeat in your ears, and after a while it wasn’t a question of if he really was leading you on, but if you had reciprocated the dance somewhere along the line without knowing. 

But, Jesus, just thinking of the phrase “I have a crush on John Egbert” makes you feel twisted up inside. Where is the line drawn between best friend and beyond? Who calls the shots on how your emotions are categorized between the two? 

When you rose at ten from the sound of Bro’s truck returning outside your window, all you could do was feel a little embarrassed for yourself, especially as you read Rose’s string of responses. Did you really lose a night of sleep over John Egbert? Did you really confess to Rose that John Egbert, of all human beings, made you feel more than a little fucked up all night?

As you begrudgingly got ready to make the trek to Rose’s for an impromptu therapy session, you tried to wipe the slate clean. You told yourself that you were probably just overthinking things. You had let your heart and mind duke it out for too long and now you’re paying the price with three hours of sleep and two girls trying to burrow into your thoughts. 

And now, as you stare back at Rose, you wonder if she could possibly know that you _had_ been scrutinizing your thoughts about him all night, and _knows_ that you’re trying to erase it all and chalk it up to overthinking. Maybe that’s why you think she might even look a little smug—she knows you won’t say no to her suggestion. 

You give a little shrug, but god damn her.

“Maybe,” you say, chill despite your running thoughts. “I guess I’ll try it out.”

“I’m glad,” she says, and she smiles again in that way—delicate and conniving—while Jade looks insistent to continue the conversation in your peripherals. 

\--

RECEIVED: do you want to meet us down at the sandlot soon? not to play, because we’ve got some helicopter moms on board, but just to hang out?

SENT: sure why not 

SENT: been getting pretty lonely up in my tower 

RECEIVED: i bet! everyone misses your charming presence.

RECEIVED: there’s kind of a catch though.

SENT: pun intended

RECEIVED:  yes, but that’s beside the point.

RECEIVED: you don’t have a spare ball around your house do you? kanaya just drove our last one into english’s yard.

SENT: are you seriously asking the most baseball deprived person on the team if he has a baseball lying around

SENT: are you 

SENT:  john egbert

SENT: the towns most beloved baseball mvp 

SENT: insinuating that you have zero baseballs in your house

RECEIVED: ummm.

RECEIVED: yes?

SENT: what is this the great depression 

SENT: are baseballs like gold nowadays in washington

SENT:  yeesh egbert baseballs gonna be a tough hobby to keep up with if you dont get your pennies in a row 

RECEIVED:  oh hush you.

RECEIVED: do you have one or not?

SENT: yeah yeah ill be down in a few relax man

SENT:  youre not gonna turn to dust from not playing baseball for ten minutes

RECEIVED:  you don’t know that!

RECEIVED:  i’m crumbling as we speak.

SENT: damn guess ill grab the superglue too 

You’re not sure what had possessed you to say that you had a spare ball lying around, but as you stand in front of the storage room full of Bro’s old things, you start to wonder if you should have just told John that of course you didn’t have any baseballs here, what did you look like, his personal Dick’s Sporting Goods? Out of all of the people on the team, you were the person he asked?

Regardless, you step into the room and around the boxes with gentle footing. Bro’s not home again—maybe the guy’s got himself a day job or something—but you’ll be damned if you just rush in and take his shit so brazenly. Some things are off limits, and you have some suspicion that the stuff in this room, things that used to be in the crawlspace out of your reach, are those things exactly.

You reach the back of the room where sunlight filters through the thin plastic blinds. You kneel in front of the box of memorabilia, and carefully, you lift away the folds to reveal and move away the dusty framed photographs of people you don’t recognize or care to know, along with the folder that was probably full of documents, to reveal the three stray baseballs sitting at the bottom of the box. 

You don’t want to stay here for any longer than you need to—your brother has a knack for coming home just as you start getting into some shit he might not agree with—so you quickly snatch one and carefully lay the folder and picture frames where they previously sat before folding the cardboard flaps down. He’ll be none the wiser. Besides, you’ll get the ball home before he can step foot through the door. No harm, no foul.

As you toss it between your hands on your stroll to the sandlot, you wonder if Bro even really cares about the thing. You want to assume that maybe he kind of does despite never indulging to you its significance, but then again you can just as easily assume that the dude’s a mini-hoarder or that he planted the balls there after you showed your interest in the game, knowing you’d snoop and deciding to fuck with you along the way. 

Regardless, it’s not until you’re clambering through the gate and greeting the masses that you push the ordeal away entirely. You’re here with the ball now. Whether or not it holds any significance to your older brother, you’ll get it back to him by the end of the day safe and sound.

You meet with John at the halfway point between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, tossing him the ball with a subdued smile. He’s more careless with his grin, and you can see exactly how the skin surrounding his eyes crinkle in response. 

“Looks like you narrowly avoided crumbling to the ground,” you comment, at which he snorts a small laugh, baring more of his teeth. 

“If your butt were any slower I’d be a goner.” 

He tosses the ball languidly in his hand, swinging his bat loosely by his side. Your hands feel empty without your glove or the ball, and you’re left shoving them into your jean pockets. 

“Hey, Strider!” 

You look over to Karkat. He stands as tall as he can at home plate with his mask pushed through his hair, revealing his usually hidden expression. He juts a thumb in the direction of the dugout.

“You better not be here to play, because I am _not_ looking at any more bloodshed on this field. I can still smell the fucking copper from the outfield.”

John clearly rolls his eyes at this, and you watch his grin fall away as he turns on his heel to face the catcher. You can’t help but smirk when he plants a fist firmly to his side in retaliation. 

“It’s the rust from the backstop, dude, don’t be a dick. Besides, he’s not playing.”

“Oh, right, _I’m_ the dick because I don’t want to see Strider’s nose fly off of his face again.” He waves a hand flippantly, his eyebrows knitting fiercely. “I’m sorry, I’ll be a little _nicer_ next time. Maybe this time he’ll break his arm! Throw a couple of ribs into the mix, make a goddamn dinner-line out of the remains! Lines out the door to feast on the last bits of Dave Strider: the boy no one could save!” 

You struggle to swallow back a laugh, and you can tell he wants to continue despite everyone hanging their heads in their hands in hopes that he’ll stop on his own. Jade repeats to him in not-so-nice terms that you’re not playing; he backs down at that, giving you an irritated look before sliding his mask back down his face. 

John turns to you, shaking his head. He’s trying to subdue a smile. 

“Helicopter mom,” he mutters. “Anyway, thanks for bringing this.” He shakes your brother’s baseball between his fingers. “You wanna watch from the dugout?”

You nod a little, but before you turn away completely, you nudge his elbow with yours. “Bet you can’t hit a homerun,” you tease. 

“Hah! Try me,” he laughs, and the competitive glint in his eye makes you grin. He saunters off to return to home plate, as if taunting you in return, and you pull yourself up to sit on the dugout’s roof.

In retrospect, as you watch John’s back in preparation to bat, it might have been a stupid dare. John wasn’t much of a homerun kid—he drove his hits fast and hard in line drives that made outfielders rightfully nervous, even made you jump out of the way once or twice—but he had his moments. Batting lefty, though, his hits usually pulled more to the right of the field, safely away from the fenced backyards. 

Besides, what was the likelihood of two homeruns in a row? Not very, you think. 

So you let yourself laugh when John gets his first strike. And again, when he swings determined and empty over the plate just a moment too late. You’re glad to have this new perspective, being able to see all of the team. It’s kind of nice to just observe. 

When the telltale _crack_ resounds over the field though, you straighten, grin dropping as your eyes follow the ball. At first, you think he had kept it center, but you realize as Terezi bolts from center field to left that he had pulled opposite. You watch her close in on the mangled fence covered in battered green plastic, and then suddenly stop.

Your heart sinks something awful when you watch the ball soar straight into the yard with the dilapidated green house. You hardly notice John still running the bases; as you jump down from the dugout, you cross the infield, where everyone’s complaining that they had _just_ gotten a new ball, that _now_ the game was over for good. You wander into the outfield, past your usual position, and stop to stare at the green house. 

Now you suddenly find yourself worrying over the idea that Bro might have actually cherished the fucking thing. Worse, he’ll realize it’s gone—the fucker could sense a minor displacement in the house the second he walked through the door. He’ll realize it’s gone and you’re not so sure if you’ll be able to explain to him that not only did you take it, but now it’s trapped in the maw of a crazy old man’s backyard with a devil dog guarding it with its life forever and ever. 

You realize that you don’t remember which ball you snatched from the box. There had been one with a scribbled signature, you remember. It was brown and old just as the other two were—but there wasn’t a chance that you were _that_ unlucky to have nabbed that one, right?

Your mind is reeling. You can hear John laughing despite the protests, half-heartedly apologizing to everyone, mostly excited that he had _actually_ hit a homerun. It takes you some time to notice that he’s calling out to you specifically, but you can’t find it in you to respond. 

Your silence causes the team to go quiet. The soft thudding of their nearing footsteps finally makes you turn to face them. 

John tries a grin, but it comes out pale and unsure. “I told you I could do it,” he says. 

“Yeah.” You find yourself reaching back to grasp at the nape of your neck. You turn slightly to glance at English’s yard again. “You packed the damn thing in there, huh?”

He gives a small, suddenly unconfident laugh. “Yeah—uh, are you okay? You’re not bummed that I lost your ball, are you?”

It’s then that you let a breath loose through your nose. You can feel your stomach knotting up uncertainly.

“Uh, I mean, not really—bummed out, I mean,” you lie. 

“You look kind of bummed out,” Jade says. 

Shit. You shove your hands in your pockets again and bring your eyes to the group. 

“So, this might be a stupid question,” you start, “but there’s like, zero chance of getting that thing back, right?”

Some nervous half-laughs ring from the group, serving as their answer, but you find John quiet among them. He’s staring at you hard. 

“Why?” he asks. 

“No reason. Just that, uh.” You hope the pounding of your heart isn’t noticeably rattling your t-shirt. You swallow. “It kind of wasn’t my ball.”

That earns you some looks. 

“What do you mean it wasn’t your ball?” asks Rose. 

“It was kind of my brother’s,” you say, and before they can retaliate you hurry in saying, “I mean the dude’s a weird fucker and there’s the chance that he might not even care about the thing, or maybe he planted it to taunt me or something, I have no fuckin’ clue, but…”

“You mean your brother with the swords?” John looks as though he’s about to crawl out of his own skin. 

“No, the one down in Utah who herds sheep in the countryside and would cry ‘pacifist’ if someone stomped on an ant.” Maybe a bad joke, seeing as it doesn’t soothe him any, but you roll your eyes behind the safety of your shades. “Yes, John, the one with the swords.”

“Oh my god,” he murmurs. “He’s going to murder me.”

“No—Jesus Christ, Egbert. If anything he’s going to wring _my_ ass for taking it in the first place, let alone losing it forever.”

“Why would he care so much about a shitty old baseball?” Karkat asks. 

“I—” You try not to sigh out a nervous laugh, but it slips breathily anyway. “So, I might have conducted a bigass overstep in my snatching and I _might_ have taken the one that was signed.”

“You’re shitting me,” Karkat says. Everyone’s faces drop considerably and it’s making you more than a little self-conscious. 

“I mean it could be some ironic fake, I really don’t know what the dude does in his spare time.”

“That’s so—fucking _stupid._ ” You can see that the catcher is having a hard time not tearing you apart, pinching the bridge of his nose to subdue the inevitable outburst.

“Why did you even take it from him?” John asks. His brows are stitched with worry, if not for himself but for your own sake. “Dude, you _knew_ it could have landed over there.”

“Look, I didn’t realize that maybe the guy is actually be serious about owning the thing until it went flying over the fence, but you Babe Ruth’d it up and now…” You let yourself run a hand through your hair, because shit, Bro might actually kill you over this.

“And now you need to get it back,” Rose concludes. 

Before you can give the affirmative, the chimes of protest start up.

“Hell no, it’s fucking history!”

“You know the hellbeast has it now, right? There’s no _way_ we’re going to be able to get it back!”

“English would probably shoot us dead in our tracks, Rose.”

“That’s _enough!_ ” Jade speaks up to silence them, fists now firmly pressed to her sides. “I get that this is something we’ve never had to deal with before, but I think that it’s time to finally face our fears! Why are we going to let some old guy and a dog ruin our day—ruin Dave’s _life?”_

Your eyebrows perk at that—she’s never failed to lay on the melodrama when it fit her needs. 

“Besides,” she continues, “I think we can make a plan. I think we can outsmart this dog once and for all.”

“You’re nuth,” Sollux murmurs. 

“I have to agree with Jade,” Rose says. “I believe it’s high-time we deal with this problem head-on, and what more opportune a motivation than Dave’s livelihood?” 

There are some murmurs of consolidation, of questioning. You decide to stay quiet on the fact that your brother probably won’t really murder you—your nerves are trying to tell you otherwise as is. 

Finally, a great sigh is heaved from somewhere in the group. Karkat raises his hands in defeat. 

“I can’t believe this is actually something we’re doing, but apparently Strider over here is enough to make us face our death wish.”

“Are we settled, then?” Rose asks. After some hum of nervous approval, she nods. “Good. I think you all know what I’m going to suggest when I say that we should meet to discuss details as soon as possible.”

There’s some solemn nodding among the team. You lock your eyes on John, who looks back at you with nerve-wracked eyes. 

“Campout.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for being patient! the next chapter will probably be out in a couple of weeks, so keep your eyes peeled :-)
> 
> hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com


	12. seeing stars (reprise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more [fanart](https://68.media.tumblr.com/8304a84422a39f449e2993c7f21cf844/tumblr_oiyv14pUd31sn419wo4_1280.png) made by the lovely [harvey](http://harveychan.tumblr.com/post/155146599594/some-johndave-christmas-presents-i-drew-for-my) :')

You’re just about down the stairs, backpack slung over your shoulder and sleeping bag tucked under your arm, when you notice the television flickering bright and muted in what you had assumed to be a desolate home. You stop mid-creaking step, pausing to eye the silhouette of his arms draped over the back of the couch. The colors from the television filter through the loosened ends of his twists, frizzed from the day’s humidity and tousled from his cap, now lying dormant and out of sight. 

It’s 8:03. The sun is just about dipping below the treeline, casting the living room in a rare soft yellow rather than its usual muted grey. His shadow looms up along the wall beside the front door; you watch it, watch the shadows of the leaves overlay and lose themselves inside the unmoving figure. 

Shit, you think. 

You feel your palms go clammy. 

You were convinced that he wasn’t home, and hadn’t been home since before you left for the field yesterday, carrying what might have been his secret pride and joy in your idiot hands. The house had been too damn quiet aside from your anxious fidgeting—did he _just_ step through the door, creeping in while you distracted yourself with packing? How did you manage not to hear his truck pull into the driveway? 

Carefully, you feel the step behind you with your heel, mindful of the squeaky spot. If you can book it up the stairs and sneak off the balcony, maybe you can escape before he has the chance to consider stopping you. Maybe you can make it past Egbert’s house before he notices—

“Dave.”

He doesn’t even give you a moment to turn around all the way. You freeze half-twisted, weight still planted in the balls of your feet, as he raises a hand to beckon you. 

“C’mere.”

Oh, shit.

Though he doesn’t turn to face you, you know he can still sense your discomfort (you can hardly own up to the fact that you don’t know whether to shit yourself or run). Fuck, he could probably hear the blood pounding in your ears from a mile away. As you quietly plod down the steps into the living room, you straighten your face, forcing your eyebrows to go lax while you feel the thrum of your pulse tap under your jaw. 

“Sup,” you say.

He only turns his head enough to regard you with a glance, rooted somewhere behind his shades. The television illuminating the right of his face does nothing but harshen the shadows. 

You swallow lamely. 

He parts his mouth to speak—to tell you off, maybe, or ask you some not-so-thinly-veiled questions, more likely—and you brace yourself for a harsh talking-to, hoping he doesn’t notice the nervous set in your jaw. But you can’t kid yourself like that anymore. Did you really think you would make it to the top of the stairs without him noticing? That you would make it to the curb before he summoned you back? Don’t be stupid.

This is your brother you’re talking about. 

Which is why, as your mind reels over the particulars of your soon-to-be funeral, you let a brow raise as he closes his mouth and draws out a stiff sigh. He leaves you in a moment of silence before starting again.

“School’s starting up soon.” You feel your shoulders drop as he continues. “Need to go down and get some paperwork and shit straightened out.”

“Uh.” You wait for him to continue, but as he leaves you lingering in silence, you force out, “Okay. I mean, we can do that like, next week or something, right?”

He waves a hand idly. “Whenever, dude.”

You shoulder your bag a little closer to yourself. He doesn’t even react to the obvious sound of the metal tabs shifting and hitting one another. You wait for him to say anything more, maybe even to make a lame observation that you’re going out, but as he fixates his gaze on the television you begin to feel awkward. 

You take a step back toward the front door, jutting a thumb at it despite hardly being within his peripherals. 

“I’m goin’ out.”

He waves his hand again, mumbling a short “‘kay” before you twist the knob and step out into the last moments of sunlight. You start walking down the street to the sandlot, grateful for the shift of your sneakers against the cement and the frogs hiding in the hedges filling up the empty air. 

On the one hand, you feel relief clouding over your anxiety and easing your bones, but on the other you can tell he’s covering up. He _has_ to know that the ball’s missing by now—the dude’s not that ignorant. 

So why didn’t he chew you out right then and there? Is he trying to make you feel safe for now so he can attack later? Or does he know that you know he knows it’s gone, and he knows that you’re going to overanalyze his feigned ignorance until it eats at your last standing nerves and makes you fess up before he can lift a finger?

You grit your teeth. Whatever he’s doing, he has to be fucking with you. 

Sucking in a breath, you walk a little faster, wading through the grasses of the field as the blue of the sky deepens and reveals the first stars. You toss your things over the fence—just as you hear a few iterations of “oh, he’s here” wade from the treehouse window above you—and climb over into Rose’s backyard. 

When you climb the ladder, the others are quiet, either murmuring quietly to one another or silently watching you toss your things in a vacant spot. You first look at John, sitting cross-legged atop his sleeping bag beside your belongings, and then to Rose, leaning over the last of the unlit citronella candles with a lighter in hand. 

You sit against your sleeping bag as she lights them. John wastes no time in getting your attention, nudging your knee with his elbow and trying to catch your eyes. 

“You’re late,” he murmurs. With a small grin, he adds, “Too cool to show up on time?”

You can’t help it—you smirk back and you lie, “You know me, man. You say 7:30, you’re lucky if you catch me within five miles at 9. It’s programmed in me.”

“Those are some shitty genetics,” he says, letting a short laugh escape. 

You start to respond, but Rose’s voice fills the buffer, tearing you from your moment of peace.

“Are you boys ready?” 

You look away from John, and him from you, to meet her stare. He gives a small “ready” in response, and you give her a lame, affirmative thumbs up. 

“Good.” She returns to addressing the whole team, now quiet and attentive. “Now, we all know why we’re gathered here tonight.”

You feel some eyes land on you. She pushes on to spare the commentary.

“We need to think of a plan. Or, presupposing a worst-case scenario, multiple plans.” 

As she taps the end of a pen against an open journal, she looks around. Her eyes land firmly on you for a moment before moving on.

“I will now be taking suggestions.”

\--

It’s nearing 4am when you finally sit up from your sleeping bag and slip your sneakers on. The others have been asleep for almost an hour—John the last to fall asleep beside you while you were in the middle of whispering to him your newest comic idea, curled on his side to give you his attention even when in the grasps of low consciousness—but you’ve remained stubbornly awake. 

At first you blame it on the chill, but you can feel the budding dampness under your arms as you carefully shrug your hoodie over your head. Then you blame it on Egbert, that maybe he was just too close to your space, but as you pocket your phone and tiptoe carefully to the treehouse’s exit you miss the comfortable warmth that had been emanating from him. 

You step down carefully to the lawn dusted with dew. 

It’s obvious why you’re restless. You just don’t want to dwell on this whole thing anymore. You had all deliberated about it—“it” being the plan, the ball, your brother, you, why you did it, why your brother is _like that_ —for hours, and for all it was worth you didn’t let slip that this whole thing got more under your skin than a leech drawn to the heat of a lone swimmer in chilly waters.

The wind-down chatter had helped. As the late night bore on and the ideas came to a trickling end, the attention on you had eased. John distracted you with talk and over-gesturing hands, focused on the promise of another movie night. You bore witness to the face of a broken man when you had admitted to him that you hadn’t seen either _Prometheus_ or _War of the Worlds._

But now he’s sleeping—they’re all sleeping, and the total silence leaves you nervous. 

The fence rattles softly as you climb over it. The moon is large, and the clouds linger in thin wisps, but you don’t sit on the damp grass this time to look at stars you’ve now gotten used to. You couldn’t even if you wanted; your legs bring you all the way across the field, up until the dewy tall grasses soak through your sneakers and you stand before the fence that shrouds the dilapidated green house. 

You pass a couple of loose fingers over the twisted metal, brushing against the browning green mesh that conceals the yard from view. 

It’s awfully quiet, you think.

The dog must sleep, right?

It’s a stupid question, you know—not that the dog doesn’t sleep, but everyone had been adamant that it’s not as simple as jumping the fence and running. The dog is a light sleeper, they insisted, the dog only sleeps a few hours. 

But how would they know that unless they’ve tried jumping the fence before?

You grasp the fence a little firmer. You want to give it an experimental rattle, just to see if the dog really would wake up. Hell, it’s so quiet you wonder if the thing even sleeps outside.

As you pull on the fence gently, the rusted hinges scrape and squeak. You hold your breath—this is a stupid thing to do, probably. If you _do_ wake the dog up, then what? If the dog wakes the old man, _then_ what?

The grasses rustle as a breeze rolls through the field. You shudder and let go of the fence. It’s not worth it, you think, not at four in the morning. 

You hardly have a moment to turn around before you hear the hiss of your name— 

“ _Dave!_ ”

—and a sudden, firm hand clutches your elbow and tugs you a step away from the rusted barrier.

Startled, you pull your arm away harshly, suppressing a yelp as you raise a defensive fist.

You know it’s stupid, but you think your brother’s name for a moment.

But as the moon causes the faint glint in his rectangle glasses, and as he raises his hands and murmurs small pleas that it’s “just him,” you lower your fist, letting out the short breath that you had swallowed in panic. 

“Jesus, Egbert, what the hell was that for?”

He lowers his hands, and you watch him eye the fence before returning to you. 

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he counters in a hush, and before you can respond, he grasps your arm again, pulling you with him and his long strides. “You know that the thing never sleeps!”

You pull your arm back to your side again. “Slow your roll, specs, I wasn’t gonna hop the fence to my doom.”

The two of you come to a stop when you reach the infield. Well, more that you stop and he refuses to continue back to the treehouse without you.

He turns to you, arms crossed.

“Then what were you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d try to find myself some peace out here in the great outdoors.” You shrug. “Thought the fresh air would help.”

He sighs, reaching up under his glasses to scrub at an eye. 

“Well, geez, leave a note or something next time. I thought you got kidnapped!”

“Kidnapped from a treehouse?”

“Well—”

You watch him fumble for a bit over his words before giving up. 

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” he tries instead. “Still freaked out over losing what might be your crazy bro’s pride and joy?”

You breathe a short laugh. 

“Yeah, actually. Thanks for reminding me, I just about repressed it.”

He grins lamely, and you can’t help but smirk softly in response. 

“Well,” he starts, stretching his long arms high over his head. You hear his elbows pop. “I’m a little awake now. We could like, walk around or something until we get tired.”

“You gonna make me do laps around the field, coach?” you ask. “Harsh.”

He snorts a little, and you follow as he starts to walk, slow, his hands buried comfortably in his pockets. “That’s what you’d deserve for scaring the shit out of me.”

“Aw, coach’s got a heart.”

You nudge his elbow with yours and he nudges back, laughing a breathy “shut up”. 

“I really thought you were kidnapped, you jerk.” 

You bite back a stupid grin the best you can. 

You’re glad for the moderate darkness. 

You suppose this is a better problem to be distracted by.

The two of you walk slow, murmuring to one another bits of small chat. He prods you about your apparently poor and sparse movie knowledge; you prod back asking which of the vast underground games in your collection he had ever even heard of (he ends up knowing quite a few, which has you beat) and about underground bands (at which point he calls you an “elitist douche,” and really, you’re not sure you can argue.)

And yet, you can’t stay very well focused on the conversation. You want to blame the lack of sleep, maybe the stress or the dog on the other side of the fence. But you feel it every time you two pass the dugout. 

You look at it, how it sits dark and unassuming against the stars and treeline, and you can’t help but wonder if anyone had seen you and John talking up there a few nights ago. Maybe Rose had spotted you from her window, or her mother from her office. 

Maybe the old man in the dilapidated green house had seen you before closing the curtains for the night. 

You feel the tips of your ears burn at the memory. How sleepless you had been when he left you hanging with his damned, non-definitive “it doesn’t matter.” How sleepless you’ve been in general since then, just barely shrouded by the issue of your brother’s ball in the possession of a murder-happy dog. 

He nudges your arm to get your attention as you both walk past the reaches of the infield. 

Do you like me, you wonder. 

“Do you like me?”

You don’t hear the words leave your mouth, but they must, because he immediately responds with a laugh. 

“What?”

You might as well be buried alive.

“Uh—”

“Dude, we just talked this out, right?” He hits your upper arm softly with the back of his hand. “Of course I like you. You’re basically my best friend!”

You stop walking. You watch him walk a few more long paces before he realizes that you’ve stopped, and you watch as he turns to you, confused.

Your chest feels full and uncomfortable.

Your face feels fiery. 

“That’s, uh.” As he comes back to where you’ve stopped, you swallow. “That’s not really what I mean, man.”

God, you want to look away. Watching his face go through the motions—his brows furrowed in confusion, eyes piercing into you to figure out what you mean, the hard rise and slow soften of his brows when he _gets_ it, and the swift movement of his eyes darting from yours to an imperceptible dark splotch of grass—is like watching an accident on the 610 Loop. 

You watch as he opens his mouth to speak, and you find words spilling from you before you give them clearance. 

“I mean, you pulled the whole ‘it doesn’t matter’ b.s. when you were in the middle of talking about the Vriska thing—I mean, what she said to you about leading me on, and, I dunno, it sounded like you were insinuating something.”

He looks at you again.

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. 

“But I don’t want to make assumptions, you know? I don’t want to be that dude that just assumes things, but, uh.” 

His eyes urge you to go on, and you know it’s too late. 

“You didn’t give me much to work with,” you finish. 

He stands quietly near you. During his silence you try not to visibly show your panic, like twisting your hands or reaching up to muss your hair or something obvious and tempting, but Jesus do you wish you could go back in time and shut your mouth. Like, future you clamping your less-clammy future hand over past you’s unrelenting ramble and dragging him off stage left. 

But you can’t, and instead you’re stuck with your uncomfortably clammy hands shoved in your hoodie pocket and your dumb running mouth.

When John glances at you again, you try to keep a straight face for him. He asks, timidly, maybe with clammy hands himself,

“What assumption?” 

You feel your breath leave you in a huff. Not out of exasperation, but more like you had just gotten punched.

“Really, Egbert?”

But before he can get defensive, you take in a breath. You look up at the stars for some relief, and you shrug, trying to shake off the nerves settling too close to the surface of your skin. 

“Just, uh.” You can’t bear to look at him. You keep your eyes trained on what you think might be a constellation. “I dunno, that you have a crush on me, I guess.”

“…Oh.”

For some reason, you don’t expect him to laugh, but he does. It’s short, nervous, and as you bring your eyes to him again you can see that he’s brought a hand up to cover his mouth. He looks down at his feet and falls silent. 

“I mean,” you continue, trying to will away the small tremor in your voice, “I don’t want to make assumptions, but I’m not gonna lie—I’ve kind of been losing my shit over it since.”

That causes him to look at you, eyes wide and brows perked, and you almost laugh. He laughs again instead.

“ _You’ve_ been losing your shit? No way.” 

“Uh…yeah way?” you try.

“I made _the_ Dave Strider lose his shit?” he asks, and you can tell he’s trying to be smug, but the fidget of his hands trying to find a comfortable position ruins the act. “Unbelievable. Does the mayor have my award ready for pick-up?”

You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, it’s a big golden trophy for making me lose my shit because I can’t tell if you’ve got a big fuckin’ crush on me, man,” you say. 

You don’t mean to say it harshly, but it makes him go mum. 

As he stands in silence, quietly contemplating his fingernails, his sweat jacket, his shoes, you want to turn and run. Run past home and into the forest where the rumored black bears live, maybe get lucky and get eaten alive. 

But you stand there instead. You stand there, and you stare as John finally picks up his head to regard the moon and stars.

“Man, I don’t know, it’s—” He worries his lip, crosses his arms tight against his chest. “—I don’t know.”

“It’s chill if you do. Or if you don’t.” You sigh, saying, “I just don’t want to play guessing games, y’know? Kind of sucks.”

“But,” he starts, and you watch as he kicks his toes against the loose dirt of the infield, “um. This is all, uh.”

He waves a hand vaguely, but the words don’t follow. 

“Awkward?” you try.

He laughs, short and all nerves. “Yeah.”

You nod a little. His fidgeting makes you feel uncomfortable and red, so you look away, looking around the field and the houses on the outskirts. Some houselights in the distance have since turned on as the early risers begin their day, while you haven’t yet ended yours.

Tentatively, you speak up. 

“Should we go chill in the dugout or something? Don’t want to get creeped on by the early birds.” 

He looks at you as you nod your head in the dugout’s direction. 

“Uh,” he starts, “sure, I guess.”

You lead the way, opting instead to hide inside the box’s dark and settle on its rickety bench instead of the roof. He follows and sits near you quietly. 

The chirping of the morning cicadas seems louder now. 

“Sorry.”

You look at him as he brushes a hand through his hair, leaning his elbows heavily on his knees. 

“It’s fine, dude,” you lie. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s not that,” he says. “I guess I’m just…”

He moves to bury his face in his hands, groaning shortly into his palms. 

“I don’t want to fuck things up,” he says quietly. 

Though you almost laugh, you can feel your heartbeat pumping harsh and sudden in your ears. “What? Nothing’s gonna get fucked up. We’re bros ‘til the end of time no matter what.”

He sighs again through his fingers. 

“I just don’t want to make this weird,” he mumbles. 

You’re glad he’s not sitting so close to you—he might be able to see your heart thrumming through your hoodie. You want to rinse and spit the waver in your voice.

“Make what weird?” you push, and you find that your voice has gone quiet, too. 

He lifts his head from his hands, sighing irritably as he leans back to settle the back of his head against the dugout’s wall. 

“I think I like you, okay?” he blurts. “Like, _like_ like you, but—I don’t know, man. I know you don’t like me back like that, and I don’t want to ruin our friendship or anything. So let’s just, I don’t know. Ignore it, okay? It’s stupid.”

Your brows perk. 

Actually, that’s all you can feel—just your brows perking. Your heart is beating so rapidly it’s either become white noise or has evacuated the premises, effectively crawling out of your body and going on vacation. You’re not sure you can feel much else. 

You feel numb, you think, but you can feel the faint quake of your hands inside of your pocket.

His face is buried in his palms again as he bobs a foot nervously. You try to level your voice, but it still comes out quiet and nerved. 

“What—when did I say I didn’t like you?” you ask.

“You _just_ said you’ve been losing your shit over it, Dave,” he says, lowering his hands again to his lap. “It tells me enough.”

…Oh, god.

“Egbert,” you start, trying not to laugh, “…No offense, but you’re kind of dense sometimes.”

He looks over at you, brows furrowed. 

“What?”

You can’t help but grin. Fuck, you even laugh a little as you rest the back of your head against the dugout’s wall. You feel both incredibly light and weighted, as though there are boulders and butterflies battling for dominance in your guts.

You take in a breath. 

“I think I like you, too.”

You’re not sure exactly how he reacts. You aren’t looking at him when you say it; you look out at the field, at the small bit of sky that’s visible from the bench. You hear the frogs and katydids that continue to call to one another in the surrounding trees. 

He doesn’t speak right away. When he does, it’s a soft, quivering, “Oh.”

At that, you turn your head to look at him, face flushed and pulse beating horribly under your jaw. You focus on the faded front of his sweat jacket, trying to remember the design in the dark. He’s looking out at the field. Maybe dazed, or maybe stunned. 

Eventually, you speak up.

“It’s okay if that's not, you know, something you want to pursue or anything. I get it, like, especially if you don’t really know if—” 

“Dave, I—” He clears his throat, turning his head to face you. “I don’t know… I don’t know how to deal with…”

He gestures his hands emptily. You can guess what he’s trying to say.

“Again, man, it’s fine if you don’t want to like, do anything about it. It’s chill. We can keep on keeping on and just act cas.”

As casual as possible, you think to yourself. As if he knows how to act casual. 

John becomes quiet for a moment, looking down at his lap as he toys with the edges of his jacket. You hear him inhale a few quavering breaths.

You wonder if you sound the same to him. 

“It’s not that I _don’t_ want to do anything about it,” he starts. “But I guess I just don’t know, like… _how_.” 

“Well, you’ve seen all the action-romance-comedies known to man, right? What do all the dudes with jetpacks and beefy necks do when they find out they’re trapped in a corny romance subplot?”

“They, uh…avoid the problem until the sequel?”

You would laugh if you weren’t so nervous. He even breaks into a small smile himself, broken only by worrying the momentary divot on his lower lip. 

He takes an unsteady breath before saying, “Would it be weird if—,” trailing off into a disheartened, “God, I don’t know.”

“What?” you ask. 

“No, never mind, dude.” 

“Come on, don’t be stingy. It’s probably not _that_ weird.” 

You watch him struggle with himself, hands trying to grasp words that aren’t quite coming to him. 

“Okay, uh. Would it be weird if I, um.” 

“If you…?”

[“Would it be weird if I asked you to kiss me?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GY4oZhwjvA)

Oh.

You feel your limbs go rigid. 

John’s foot, perched on his opposite knee, bobs relentlessly. 

He looks as though he regrets asking, and he opens his mouth to backtrack—“I mean, of course that’s kind of weird, you’re like, my best bro, right? Just forget it, I shouldn’t have said that”—and yet you find yourself unable to believe he said anything in the first place. 

Did he actually?

He did.

You scoot yourself a little closer to him on the bench, feeling the lump in your throat become prominent. And still, you reach out a hand to still his bobbing knee, only to find that your hand is shaking just as terribly. 

The touch quiets him. 

“Just a taste test?” you tease, but it comes out about as smooth as riding a tractor down a crumbling mountainside. But he squeaks a small laugh at it anyway, and you smile. “Sure, I’ll kiss you, dude.”

You position yourself a little clearer on the bench to face him, but he still faces the field, eyes nervously trained on his hands fumbling in his lap. You squeeze his knee softly, getting his attention.

“You gonna look at me, or am I doing all the work here?” you tease again.

He doesn’t laugh this time. He moves to face you, nervous bursts of energy making his shift seem jumpy and sudden. You try to bring your eyes to his, but he can hardly keep his trained on yours.

“You sure you wanna?” you ask. 

He finally looks at you. And he nods, mouthing a muted “yeah”. 

You swallow dryly. “Alright.”

Whether it’s for his comfort or your own, you keep your hand on his knee. You wet your chapped lips with the tip of your tongue, and you watch as he mimics you. 

Slowly, you lean closer to him, suddenly aware of how warm he is and how hard and loud your heart is beating. You wonder if he can hear it. You wonder if he’ll be able to feel it. 

When your lips touch his, you don’t dare to push any farther. The feeling is just a whisper—light. It’s very, very light. You question if you’re even really kissing him, until you feel his lip move ever so slightly against your own.

You’re absolutely kissing him. 

You’re kissing John Egbert. 

You pull away when you hear his breath hitch, and you find him staring at you, wide-eyed, as if he had blacked out and come to to you macking on his unconscious face. His features relax slowly, but he remains quiet. 

Did you fuck it up?

You move yourself away from him a little, removing your hand from his knee. 

“I don’t know if that, like, answers anything for you, or whatever.” You reach up to thread your fingers into your hair, finally giving into nerves. “But we don’t have to do that again if you don’t wanna.”

Silence. 

After a moment, he shifts closer to you on the bench. Tentatively, he touches your knee with his fingertips.

When you meet eyes again, it’s only for a moment. 

He leans in, slow, careful, and very un-John, and you feel his lips barely brush yours. It’s somehow even lighter than the kiss before, but you don’t dare try to deepen it. You hardly even let yourself breathe. 

You know for sure that you can feel his pulse tapping away inside his upper lip.

When he pulls away, he stares at you again, awed and unsure. You stare back in much the same way. 

He swallows, and as he turns away from you, he retracts his hand from your knee. You follow suit, turning toward the field to look out at the stars.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him reach up to touch his lips. 

The katydids grow loud again, as if closing in on the field. 

For a while, you stargaze in silence, leaned forward with your elbows on your knees to get a better view. You try to piece together new constellations, but instead your eyes jump one star to the next, failing to connect them with lines. 

After some time, John finally relaxes beside you and does what you assume to be the same. 

“So,” you murmur to him, trying not to ruin the silence entirely, “what now?”

“I’m not sure,” he says softly. You look at him, and he glances at you, smiling lightly. “I’m not sure, really.” 

You smile faintly back and return your eyes to the stars. 

“Alright.”

It’s not long before you hear him subdue a yawn, and you finally stand, ducking under the dugout’s overhang. You hold your hand out to him when he looks up at you.

“Maybe we should sleep on it, yeah?” you say. “Running to first base is pretty damn tiring sometimes. Need to regain our strength and shit, gotta replenish those lost calories.” 

He laughs, taking your hand once he stands. You pull lightly as he steps out of the dugout.

“Think Rose still has those Doritos hanging around?” he asks. 

“Oh, fuck, I hope so. Man, I could go for some Doritos.”

As you start to walk back to the treehouse, you let go of his hand, dropping yours back to your side. 

“I think she still has some left,” he says, “but Terezi might have squirreled them away for herself."

“Damn. Think she’s sleeping with them?”

“As long as they’re not stuffed down her sleeping bag, I don’t really care.”

When you reach the fence, you climb over beside one another, making the fence rattle a little louder than you hoped for. John silences it as best he can, but you snicker quietly behind him when the noise rolls away, much out of his control. 

You go towards the treehouse’s ladder, finally feeling ready to sleep, but before you step up you feel him grasp your hand.

“Hey,” he says. You look back at him, and he squeezes your fingers awkwardly. “Uh, thanks. For that, I mean.”

You smirk faintly before squeezing his hand back. 

“No problem, Egbert. I know Doritos are a big deal around here, so I figured it would be chivalrous of me to share the last of them.”

He laughs breathily, hitting your shoulder with his free hand. 

“Jerk. You know what I mean.”

You do. And as you let go of his hand with a final brush of your fingertips against his, you turn to go up the ladder. Quietly, he follows you, tiptoeing around the fast asleep crew as you return to your vacant spots. 

“Still want Doritos?” he whispers. 

“Hell yeah, I do.”

You smile at one another, silent and full, dimly lit by the remaining citronella candles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never written a kiss scene in my life lol. 
> 
> sorry it took so long for an update! had a very busy semester. hope you enjoyed :'0
> 
> hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com


	13. plan c

“Alright,” Jade huffs, nudging the long pair of chewed-up metal tongs away from her and further into the grass, “time for plan C.” 

You and the rest of the team stand in the outfield some tens of feet away from the green house, starting to sulk as the day goes on. The sun is high, the sky cloudless. On any other day, this would be the summoning of an eight-hour game by the likes of God. But as you taste your sweat sinking into the line of your mouth, watching the dog stick its white snout through the brand new hole in the green mesh of the fence, you can only think that God might not be on your side today. 

Jade plants her fists on her sides, eyeing the fence. As you stand near her, you watch her brows furrow, her bottom lip pout as she thinks. 

Behind her, Karkat cups his elbow in his hand—a casualty from plan A. 

“Brilliant plan, Jade,” he mutters. “Just brilliant. Who would have thought the entity from hell _liked_ attacking things invading its property? Because _I_ sure thought that it would see that shitty contraption and think nothing about it, just like it thought nothing about those people that it _definitely_ didn’t rip apart—”

Sollux tosses him a hefty glare; you notice the bruise on his left cheek has darkened. “Jesus, _thut up_. It’s not like you vetoed the plan or anything.” 

“I _would have_ if I were around to vote on the fucking thing—”

“Whose fault is it that you weren’t around?” Terezi quips. You watch as she fusses with her bangs, paying no mind to the sweat building on her forehead. “Besides, your vote would have been outweighed anyway.” 

You look away as Karkat turns some shade of red, back to Jade before you witness a tantrum. She’s pushed her glasses to the top of her head. 

“What’s plan C?” you ask. She responds with a shrug.

“I’m not sure. Didn’t think we’d need one, honestly!” 

You eye the pair of long tongs—well, glorified tongs, really, since they’re just two long pieces of metal hinged together with some plastic scoops attached to the end of them, courtesy of Jade herself—and trail your eyes over the dents and tears in the plastic. The teeth marks make their way up the metal, and probably would have gone all the way up if Jade hadn’t pulled the thing away.

“I didn’t think that thing had it in him to sink bite marks into metal,” you say.

“Dave, it’s eaten _people_ before—”

“I still call bullshit on that, but whatever.” 

She huffs, ready to spill a damn manifesto on how _wrong_ and _naïve_ you are, but you stop her by saying, “Do you think Rose masterminded some third plan while we were all sleeping or are we totally boned here?”

That makes her bite back her speech. She looks at the green house with a short sigh, responding, “No idea. But I think we can think up something…”

You nod a little, and she turns away from you as she reaches up to adjust her ponytail—maybe to look for Rose, or maybe just to wander and think up another plan herself. You keep your eyes trained on the fence, hands deep in your pockets. 

_bzzt._

Shit. Your phone buzzes against your fingertips again—that’s the third time in the past hour. You pull it out to squint down at it, and through the glare, you see another text from Bro hovering at the top of your notifications. 

RECEIVED: Answer me.

You swipe the notification away with your thumb and breathe a not-so-steady breath through your nose. He first texted you when everyone was preparing for plan B, and even just seeing his name made your stomach lurch up into your chest. It was just a simple “Dave.” that turned on the first initial settings of panic mode, and you’ve been trying to subdue it and swallow it down since. 

He’s onto you. He must be. 

_Fuck._

You shove your phone back into your pocket and toss a hefty squint at the fence and the dog sitting behind it. This is all your fault, and you know that. No one would be anywhere fucking _near_ this thing if it wasn’t for you, and now they’re inches away from getting chewed apart. No, you don’t think that this hellbeast, dog, whatever it is has actually eaten anyone—that’s just stupid—but the thing biting someone hasn’t left the realm of shitty possibilities. 

God. It should be you sticking your neck out to get the ball back. If anyone’s going to get hurt getting it back, it should be your own stupid ass. You should have just jumped the fence when you had the chance. You should have grabbed the ball back when the beast was asleep, should have never dared John to hit a home run in the first place because _of course_ he can hit a home run he’s the town’s most cherished baseball player he’s the goddamn MVP of the baseball team he’s—

“Dave! Hey, Dave!”

You nearly jump out of your skin when a hand lands on your shoulder. You whip your head around, only to come face-to-face with the boy wonder himself. His smile falters a little when his eyes try to come to yours, at which you try to compose whatever part of your face is not exuding cool, calm, and collected.

“What—” Jesus. You swallow away a quake. “What’s up?”

“Um,” he starts, dropping his hand from you and instead jutting his thumb over his shoulder, “we’re all gonna head over to Rose’s to take a break. Wanna come?”

You stare blank for a moment, then slowly turn away from the fence, facing him. The others have already started making their way across the field, probably itching to get out of the sun and away from the dog. Maybe even get some ice packs while they’re at it. 

“Sure,” you say. You try to shake off your nerves, but you can tell that he’s unconvinced. So you start walking. “Any word about the next plan?”

“Uh, well—hey, wait up.”

He’s quick to catch up with you, long legs carrying him up to your side. The rest of the team is already near the fence bordering Rose’s house on the opposite side of the field. You watch as some of them opt to jump the fence instead of taking the long way around through the gate. 

“Well,” John starts, “not really, to be totally honest. But I think we’re going to talk about it at Rose’s.”

“Solid.” 

He nods. “Yeah. Don’t worry, man—we’re gonna get it back.” He sports another grin, nudging your elbow with his. “You’re starting to wig out.”

“Am not.”

“Dude, you totally are. Come on.”

He picks up his pace a little, and briefly, he reaches back, pulling on your fingers with his for just a moment. Just enough to tell you to keep up. You look up at him, but he’s already set his sights back on Rose’s house. The slight tingle in your fingertips disappears as quickly as it had come.

...Was last night even real?

It hadn’t seemed real when you woke up to John still sleeping beside you. The ache of your bones pressed against the treehouse’s wooden floor – that was real. The sunlight filtering into the small room through the trees, the rustling quiet and serene – that was real. But John sleeping so near you, breathing quietly, hand still clutching the bag of Doritos now only left with crumbs collecting in the corner pockets...

Did last night really happen? 

You wondered this for a while after waking. Even now, with the sun hanging high, you watch him as he walks ahead of you, wondering. 

You slow yourself a little as you pull your phone out again. His back to you, you type out a text—

ENTER MESSAGE: did last night really happen

—but you delete it for the tenth time and shove your phone back in your pocket. John looks over his shoulder at you, his eyes both questioning and telling you to hurry up, and you quicken your pace to fill the gap.

The two of you jump the fence into Rose’s yard. As you round the house to the front door, you can already hear the groaning and bickering. Though hardly anyone seems to notice you or John walking in on the conversation, you do catch a brief glance from Jade, which then flickers over to John and back to you questioningly. 

You wave it off – _I’ll tell you later_ – to which she nods at before tuning back into the conversation. Karkat stands beside Sollux, slouched in one of the dark recliners, and spreads his arms wide in exasperation.

“We can’t just _knock on his door_ , you idiot! He’d probably strangle us!” 

“I mean, maybe he’s _tho_ old that he couldn’t even hurt us—”

“Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure that he could hand our asses back to us blind _and_ deaf, _and_ suffering from fucking arthritis! Besides, I heard he keeps a rifle right next to the front door just in case there are any pesky kids who dare to step foot onto his lawn.” 

“Oh, _bull_ shit...”

While Sollux and Karkat remain at the forefront of the conversation decibels-wise, you hang back behind the couch, just behind Rose and Kanaya murmuring to one another. Rose looks back at you, twisting herself slightly to rest her arm on the couch’s back.

“Hello, Dave. Are you alright?” she asks.

“Peachy-keen. Straight chillin’, with emphasis on the _illin’._ ” 

“Uh-huh. Well, as you can see, the newest rendezvous is going marvelously.” 

You look up again at the group. Aside from the still-boiling argument, most everyone else is just indulging in light chatter and snacking, probably just thankful not to be near the dog for the time being. 

“Of course, I think everyone is just unwinding for now,” she continues, looking back at the group herself. “I know you’re still new, so the actual weight of this situation might be a little lost on you.”

 _The actual weight?_ You almost want to scoff . The weight of the situation is that your brother might never let you see the light of day again if you don’t get this ball back. Hell, by this point, you’ll be lucky if you don’t have to deal with some days-long strife shit even if you _do_ get it back. 

Maybe she catches onto your train of thought. She reaches over to pat your hand hanging limp by your side. 

“That’s not to say that you don’t have your own side of the situation to deal with. I’m merely suggesting that this issue with the old man’s dog is quite...stressful, to say the least.”

Kanaya hums a little in response; whether it’s in agreement or not, you’re not able to tell. But Rose seems attuned to her exact meaning and turns to face her a little. 

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking – ‘the very least’. But Dave, believe me when I say that we are quite literally facing our demons today. Well, one of them, that is.”

You can only muster a nod to her as you feel your phone go off again. _Speaking of demons..._

But you find your nerves proven wrong as you pull your phone out. Thinking that you’ll come face to face with another short-worded text from your brother, you’re instead met with a text from John.

RECEIVED: are you okay?

You look up, and you find him standing on the other side of the room, lurking somewhat nearby Terezi and Jade. He looks up and catches your eye.

You look back down to respond.

SENT: dude im totally fine

SENT: you know me straight chillin

SENT: extra emphasis on the illin

RECEIVED: you said that to rose already.

SENT: no i didnt

RECEIVED: yes you did! i heard you.

RECEIVED: besides, i can tell you’re lying.

SENT: mama didnt raise no liar egbert

SENT: im as truthful as a newborn baby presented before the pope on his inauguration day

RECEIVED: no offense but...you don’t have a mom...

SENT: ouch

SENT: fine thats a fair statement

RECEIVED: so do you want to talk somewhere? we can go into rose’s room for some peace and quiet.

SENT: damn dude already stealing me away 

SENT: will she mind

RECEIVED: i’m sure she’ll understand!

When you look up, John is already making his way over to the stairs. He nods in the direction of Rose’s room, and you part ways with Rose to follow him. He reaches behind him again to touch his fingers to yours to lead you up, but again, the feeling in your fingertips comes and goes. 

_Did last night really happen?_

You follow him into Rose’s room, which you had seen briefly before but had never actually stood in. It’s just messy. It reminds you of your own room, just with more purple knitting supplies than you’re used to. You settle yourself against the edge of her desk, crossing your arms. 

“So,” he starts, nonchalantly shoving a shirt out of his way with the toe of his shoe as he paces the floor, “you’re totally freaking out.”

“I’m not totally freaking out.”

“Uh, yeah you are. You haven’t looked so tense and all Mister Serious since...” 

He waves a hand emptily. You watch him look to the ceiling in thought. 

“Well, since never,” he says, “and it’s kind of weird. I told you we have this all under control.” 

A small sigh worms its way out of you, and you feel your shoulders slouch a bit lower. He stops pacing.

“What?” he asks. “We definitely have this under control.”

“I mean, no offence dude, but we’re not exactly making progress,” you say. 

“Well, yeah, because the first two plans kind of sucked. Karkat keeps saying that we’ve ‘gravely underestimated the beast’ or whatever, but I think we just haven’t thought up something concrete yet.” 

He tosses the air quotes in before dropping his hands to settle at his waist. 

“Besides,” he continues, “you still don’t know what the big deal is with this ball, right? You said your brother hardly knows what baseball is.”

“I mean, I have no idea what the dude knows and doesn’t know.”

“But it doesn’t _seem_ like he—”

“Egbert, _I don’t know._ ” 

His brows perk up, and you realize how tense your jaw is. Slowly, you let out a breath. 

“Like, I’m not shitting you when I say that I have no fucking clue if this ball is even important to him or not. I don’t know if it’s junk that miraculously survived the move up, or if he has some weird history with it. I don’t know if he’s even capable of sentimentality and shit.” 

You stand up straight from and join him at the middle of the floor, feeling the need to pace a little yourself. You nudge a ball of yarn with the side of your foot, and he nudges it back.

“For all I know, he somehow foresaw all this happening,” you say, looking down at the yarn, waving a hand loosely, “and he planted the thing to fuck with me. In which case, it’s working.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That’s anyone’s guess. All I know is that he could potentially kick my ass over it. He’s been texting me for the past hour.”

John looks up at you from your little yarn ball match. 

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really—”

“I’m not kidding.” You pull out your phone and open the texts from Bro, knowing full well that you’re giving him proof that you’ve seen the messages. “Look.”

RECEIVED: Dave.

RECEIVED: Where are you?

RECEIVED: Answer me.

John squints at the texts. 

“That’s it?” he asks.

You push your phone back into your pocket. 

“The guy hardly ever texts me,” you explain. “To get three in a row from him usually spells out some sort of ass-kicking.”

“And you think it might be over the ball?”

You shrug. 

“Not sure what else it could be over.”

“Geez.”

You fall silent, nudging the yarn ball with the toe of your sneaker. He reciprocates the game, but folds his arms across his ribs with a hum. 

“We’re gonna get it back,” he says again. 

“I think I should be the one to get it.”

“What?” He stops the yarn under his foot, keeping you from nudging it back. “Dude, no way. We’re not going to send you over.”

“Okay, but how about: you do.”

“No, that’s just stupid—”

“I’m the one that caused this whole situation, Egbert.” You look up at him, mirroring his crossed arms. “It’s my fault that it’s over there in the first place.”

“No, it’s my fault, remember? I’m the one that actually hit it over.”

“Yeah, because I dared you—”

“That doesn’t matter! Not to brag, but even if you didn’t dare me, I probably would have gotten it over there anyway.”

You move to speak, but he silences you with a raised hand. He pauses to think. 

“I mean, if anyone should go over to get it, it’s me.”

You raise a brow.

“That’s stupid,” you say.

“Shut up, no it’s not.”

He finally nudges the yarn ball out of reach, but he keeps his eyes on the floor, tapping his foot. Nerves. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“Yeah, it is. I thought you believed in the whole ‘monster-dog-eats-kids-the-town-is-horrified’ story?” you say.

“Oh, I do—because it’s _true_ —but...I think I can outrun him.”

“Alright, and I can outrun _you_ , so—”

“Dave, you don’t know this dog like we do. Besides, you’re still injured.”

You roll your eyes, and a short laugh comes out of him. 

“I saw that! I’m serious, I’m not going to send you over. I’ll do it. I don’t want you to get eaten _and_ beat up.”

As he plants his fists on his waist, in a “that’s-the-last-word-on-the-matter” kind of way, you find yourself at a loss. It’s not fair for him to literally throw himself over into what he and, you guess, half the town believes to be some circle of hell just because you fucked up. He has every reason to send you over instead, and yet...

You can feel the tips of your ears burning a little bit. 

“Not to sound lame or anything,” you say, “but...you would actually go through all that for me?”

Fuck, that sounded so dumb. But you watch as he smiles, reaching up to fuss with the hair falling onto his brow. 

“Well, yeah. I figure I like you enough to risk my life fighting off a hellbeast for your brother’s dumb baseball.”

He laughs, but you only feel your cheeks flush. You suddenly feel like you don’t know what to do with your hands, and you awkwardly shove them inside of your pockets. 

“Well,” you say, “sounds like you like me a hell of a lot, then.”

Now he turns red, obvious under his paler skin, but he laughs again. Soft and awkward, but it makes you smile a little.

“I would say I do, yeah,” he says.

“Then...” You bite the inside of your cheek – _this is a stupid question_ – but let go to continue. “Did last night really happen, then? Like, we, y’know.”

He turns even redder at that, and for a moment his smile dims. But it comes back with another small laugh.

“Ah-ha, yeah, uh, I think it did...is that okay?”

You can’t help but smile a little more. Despite the short flash of fear that crossed his eyes, he seems relieved with your silent response. 

“Yeah man. All good in my book.”

He smiles fuller at you for a moment before looking down at his feet. You find yourself doing much the same—looking down at your feet, bashful, happy, relieved, and, for the moment, a little less worried. You watch him reach for your hand again and, instead of merely brushing your fingers with his, he grabs it with a small squeeze. When you look up, you find him already looking at you, smiling. 

“We’ve got this,” he says. 

He squeezes your hand again, a little stronger this time, and you squeeze back. You nod at him. 

“Yeah. We’ve got this,” you repeat. 

When he steps back to exit the room, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. He leads you out to the stairs, at which point he lets go. You follow him down as he says,

“Guys! I have a new plan.”

\--

“I still think that this is a dumb as fuck idea, John.”

John rolls his eyes as he crouches, tightening and retying his sneakers. Karkat looms beside him, arms crossed and brows furrowed. 

“Seriously, I wouldn’t even tell _Strider_ to do this, and this whole thing’s his fault!” 

He juts a thumb at you, knowing full well that you can hear him despite being farther away. You watch John stand, roll his feet a couple times to get used to the adjustment, and look down at Karkat. Whatever he says is too quiet for you to overhear, but you can only imagine that it’s along the lines of “too bad” or “unless you have a better plan, this is what we’re doing.” 

You don’t entirely disagree with Karkat, though. This idea is a little stupid. But John made his case, and even though everyone was in a bit of an uproar, no one had really come up with any better ideas. Even with enough amendments (i.e. distraction tactics), everyone still seemed a bit on edge. 

John paces a little before the fence. Despite being generally optimistic about the whole thing, you can tell he's starting to psych himself out. 

“Dave?” 

Rose taps your shoulder to get your attention back, and you turn to look at her. She holds a long pole at her side, towering her by a good couple of feet, with old jangly cat toys and what was supposed to be her dinner attached to its end (“Don’t worry,” she had assured you, “my mother can’t cook. She would have ruined the steak anyway.”) She tosses her head a little to the side, gesturing.

“I think Jade is just about ready. Would you mind helping her up?” 

You nod. Jade waits beside one of the solitary trees that line the outskirts of the sandlot, and the only tree that has a branch thick enough to (somewhat safely) oversee the old man’s backyard. 

She is, essentially, the distraction tactic. 

As you walk up to her, she pulls her hair back out of her face, trying to brush back the baby hairs sticking to her forehead. She’s tucked her glasses into the front of her shirt. 

“You sure you want to be the one to do this?” you ask. She finishes tying her hair and promptly lands her fists on her sides. 

“Are you doubting me, Strider?”

“Nah, I just don’t want you to get eaten.”

She grins. 

“Don’t worry about me! I’ll be safe enough – I don’t think the dog’s big enough to jump all the way up there.”

She gestures to the branch. You figure she’s right, but you’ve seen those dog videos where they can scale full walls. 

“Guess so,” you say. 

“It’ll be fine. Can you hoist me up?” 

You nod, kneeling and cupping your hands for her to step into. As you hoist her up to a lower branch, Rose stands by with the distraction pole as Jade maneuvers her way up. 

“Stay close to the trunk for now,” Rose says to her. She reaches up to hand Jade the pole. “We’ll tell you when we’re ready. Can you look for a possible way out for John in the meantime?”

Jade salutes down to her in understanding before readjusting her position, squinting at the old man’s backyard. You watch her slide her glasses back on. 

“Wow, there really _is_ a bunch of junk back here,” she says, raising her brows a little. “But it looks like there’s an old trunk leaning up against the fence. He could probably make a run at it and jump back over just fine.”

“Great. Any sign of the dog?”

“Hm... not yet, no. I’ll let you know when it comes back out.”

Rose gives her a nod, then looks back at you. “How are you faring, Strider?”

“Well, I’m not the one jumping over, so I guess I’m dandy.” 

“Fair enough. I would suggest checking on John—he’s looking a little nervous. Seeing as you two are on speaking terms again, I’m sure he would appreciate some words of encouragement.”

She smiles at you—knowingly, you feel—and she leaves you to nod dumbly to yourself. 

John. Right. 

You turn to face him again, still pacing, still kicking his toes to the ground every now and then as if to check that his shoes still work. As you walk up to him, you can see that he’s been biting his lip again. 

“Hey, man.”

He starts a little and stops pacing, as if you had startled him out of a trance. Seeing that it’s you, though, seems to calm him a little. He even smiles, for what it’s worth.

“Hey. You alright?”

“I came over to ask you that, actually.”

“Wow, guess I’m just a mind-reader!”

“Or a copy-cat.”

“Whatever.” He looks down at the grass, kicking at a sprouting dandelion. “Uh, I guess I’m okay. Just waiting for everyone else to be ready, I guess.”

“Well, Jade’s ready whenever you are. She says there’s a sort of trunk leaning up against the fence that you can probably use to help you get back over.”

He nods a little, looking up past you to look at Jade perched in the tree. 

“Alright. I guess she’s the only one I was waiting on?”

“I think so. Are you sure the dog won’t try to follow you back over, though?”

“I mean, we’ve never seen it try to hop the fence before, so I don’t think it will. I think we’ll be okay...”

He chews at his lip a little as he eyes the fence. You nudge his arm a little with the back of your hand to get his attention back.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” you ask. “I mean, really, I can do it instead.” 

“No, no, no. Dude, I’ve got this.” 

Again, he tries smiling at you, but you know better. He’s nervous—more than nervous. He hides his hands in his pockets, then steps back from your small conversation to eye the rest of the team. They watch him nervously.

“I think I’m ready,” he says. He looks at you again, smiles, and retreats slowly to the fence. The rest of the team keeps their distance, but remain gathered. You make the slow walk up to join them. 

You look up to Jade. "Any sign of the dog yet?" 

She shakes her head silently, keeping quiet to keep from alerting it at all. 

John looks over to Jade and gives her the thumbs up. She returns the gesture, and she watches along with the rest of you as he starts making the climb up. 

“This is suicide,” you hear Karkat murmur.

“We’ll pick out a nice tombstone for him,” Terezi murmurs back.

Jade crawls slowly along the branch until she’s fully over the yard. The cat toys jingle soft from the pole.

You watch John look at the team as he reaches the other side of the fence. He grins briefly before looking back into the yard.

And then, with a small leap, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! thanks for being patient :-)
> 
> hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com


	14. the neighbor / the brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [chapter 10 fanart](http://dzueni.tumblr.com/post/162586421692/johndave-week-day-1-fanartfanfic-trade-i-cant) by the lovely dzu :')

When John disappears over the fence, the team goes mum. The gentle jingle of cat toys, dangling from the pole in Jade’s grip, is all you can really hear. 

For some time, nothing seems to happen. You eye Jade, perched carefully on the tree branch overhanging English’s yard, and since nothing about her screams “wow John’s getting torn the fuck apart”, you force yourself not to panic. To your left, the rest of the team watches the fence quietly, kicking the grass with their toes or otherwise fidgeting. There are some soft murmurs—either to one another or to themselves, you’re not really sure—that hardly register as real words or noises as you stare hard at the green fence. 

You still have your doubts that the dog will actually eat John alive. But, you have to admit, those doubts are quickly becoming shrouded under the thick-forming clouds of panic. What if the dog really _is_ overprotective of the old man’s junkyard? What if it’s lurking, waiting for the right moment to pounce on John and drag him to some underground tomb where all the other kids were supposedly dragged to over the years?

The thought makes your hands go a little clammy. 

Suddenly, you regret not saying good luck to him, or at least paying homage to his favorite action-romance flicks and giving him a good luck kiss. And maybe it wouldn’t have been totally ironic, or maybe he would have caught on—you don’t know, and you won’t, because you didn’t do it. 

You look up at Jade again, still dangling the cat toys and meat over the yard. She doesn’t seem to be worried, or even scared. If anything, she just looks confused. 

Warily, you walk over to the base of the tree, opting to get away from the murmurs of John’s supposed suicide attempt to instead call up to Jade. 

“How’s the weather up there, Harley?” 

She glances down at you briefly before setting her eyes on the yard again. 

“No sign of the dog yet,” she says. “John’s almost to the ball—he’s being extra careful not to make any noise.” 

You nod a little, and you turn away feeling a little calmed. Maybe John just got lucky and the thing’s taking a nap or something—

“Wait— Oh, _shit_.” 

When you look back at Jade, she’s rattling the pole a little, and then more fiercely, sitting more alert on the branch. You start to ask what’s going on, but she answers before you have the chance. 

“It’s here,” she says. 

You take a step back from the tree as she suddenly hoists herself to stand on the branch, bracing herself against the trunk as she whistles quick and loud in an attempt to grab the dog’s attention. It’s then that you can hear the dog bark, and it’s then that you see Jade’s eyes go wide as it leaps for the distraction, causing her to not only let go of the pole but to inch herself closer to the trunk. You see the top of the dog’s head for just a moment, and then it disappears, landing to inspect the treat likely garnished and tangled with cat toys. 

Though you stare up at her, you can hear the noise behind you building as the rest of the team starts to worry. Rose comes near your side and nears the tree, looking up at Jade.

“Jade, are you alright—”

But Jade doesn’t acknowledge her—instead, she gestures wide to John, sweeping her free arm from the backyard to the sandlot.

“John, _go!_ ”

There’s another bark, and she seems to take that as her cue to face the sandlot and leap from the branch. Rose pulls you by the arm out of her way; though you see her land and roll a little to a safety, your focus is more on the fence, and the dog leaping high behind it.

You watch it’s head, neck, long front legs appear above the fence as it tries to leap up the tree’s trunk, nose just surpassing the spot Jade was in moments ago, before dropping down again. Beside you, Jade huffs a short “Jesus Christ” from her spot on the ground. 

“Jade,” Rose says, holding a hand out to her and helping her to her feet again. “What’s happening?” 

“They were having a standoff,” she responds. She huffs again as she plants her fists on her sides. “But, I don’t know…it didn’t look like it was going to hurt John—it almost looked as if—”

She’s interrupted by a thick _thunk thunk thunk_ coming from the other side of the fence, and as you turn, you see John clearing the top with a panicked “move move _move_ ” to the group standing in his way. He flails to the team, and as they stumble aside to let him land, he flails a little more before descending to the field. He rolls some ways, then stops, lying on his back and holding his hands close to his chest. 

You don’t really feel yourself call his name, but you hear it. As the team starts to surround him, you run over; when you look down at him, half-expecting him to be bleeding or _dead_ , he makes that dumb grin at you through heavy breathing. 

“John, holy shit. Are you alright?” you ask. 

You kneel beside him as he starts to sit up. Instead of a real answer, he breathes some more. He breathes, and then he starts to laugh. 

“Oh, my god,” he says, still holding a hand to his chest, “that was fucking crazy.”

You can’t muster much of a smile until he looks at you again. Seeing this, he says,

“Don’t worry, I’m fine! And, look.”

He unfurls the arm close to his chest, revealing the ball—your brother’s ball, with the shitty little signature on its side—gripped in his hand. 

“It’s not even that dirty,” he says, smiling, looking down to admire it a little bit. He then holds it out to you; when you hesitate, he grabs your hand to place it in your palm, and he laughs when you let out a heavy, relieved breath. 

“Glad to have it back?” he asks. 

“Well, yeah, no shit, but…” You look at him, grinning lightly. “I’m mostly just glad you didn’t get eaten.” 

He smiles wider, shoving your shoulder lightly with his hand. 

“You almost definitely should have died over there,” Karkat says, causing you and John to look up at him and the rest of the lingering group, “but, I guess the dog’s impervious to moron.”

John rolls his eyes, and you finally stand. You hold your hand out to him, and he grasps it, hoisting himself up. 

And maybe the touch lingers for a little longer than necessary before either of you let go, but no one seems to notice. Who can blame you, anyway?

Already, the quiet tension of the team starts to dissipate, and you all share a breathy, lingering laugh. 

That is, until the distinct _thunk thunk thunk_ is heard again from the other side of the fence, causing you all to turn and truly witness some backward-ass act of God. The laughter stops as the dog leaps over, extending its long white body to clear the fence and land with a sprint past you into the field.

In any other scenario, maybe someone would call that angelic, with the sun hitting the dog in a way that made it shine. Instead, you all share a scream. Someone yells “ _scatter!_ ” and, well, you all get the _fuck_ away from the beast in a unified sprint. 

You stop somewhere in left field, clutching the ball to your side. Everyone else has landed in different spots, encircling the sandlot and staring at the dog standing on second base, wagging its tail. It points its nose up to sniff at the air, then looks around, as if analyzing each of you individually. 

It lands its eyes on John for a moment, standing some ways off from third base, and you watch him freeze. But, after some time staring at him, it moves along, to Kanaya, Rose, Sollux…and stopping on you. 

You watch it sniff again, nose pointed at you, and from afar you watch its eyes twitch down to look at your hand. 

_Oh, fuck no._

Its tail wags harder, and after a brief, low bow, it starts to sprint at you. 

“Oh, _fuck_ no.”

You feel yourself grip the ball tighter and you run. Like, should-be-on-the-Olympic-track-team _run_. You run past right field, through the dirt in the infield, in circles back to left field—all the while feeling the dog on your heels, all the while seeing the mortified faces of the team as you whisk past them. When you start making your round back through the infield, you hear John call out to you.

“Dave! Throw it to me!”

You hardly have the time to give him a questioning glance (but you think you managed anyway) before you toss him the ball and run until you feel a distinct lack of panting on the back of your ankles. When you eventually stop, close to Jade in right field, you turn around to face the sandlot, sliding your hands into your hair and breathing heavy. 

John sprints around the field, in a way you imagine you were running, and the dog seems almost ready to bite his sneakers off, that’s how close the thing is to his heels. He almost stumbles trying to change directions to get some distance from it, but finds himself practically brushing noses with it instead.

Though your breathing is still heavy, you gear yourself up to run again, dropping your hands from your hair.

“Shit, I need to help him—he’s gonna get eaten alive.”

“Actually,” Jade starts beside you, “I don’t think it’s trying to hurt—”

“Dave! A little help here?” John calls. Before you have much time to respond, he chucks the ball in your direction, and Jade snatches it from the air before you can raise your hand midway.

The dog abandons John for Jade, and Jade, seeing that she’s made a mistake, readies a throw. 

“Rose!” she calls, loud across the field, and before the dog can really near either of you she pitches it to the opposite side of the sandlot. 

Rose seems almost startled to be brought into the mix, but she readies herself to catch it. John settles beside you, placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Oh my god, I almost got _eaten!_ ” he huffs. 

You hear Rose call out to Kanaya, and again sends to ball to a different part of the field. 

“Guys, I don’t think this dog’s trying to eat anyone,” Jade says, at which John immediately scoffs.

“Jade, he almost _bit my ankles off!_ ”

“John—”

“ _Straight off!_ ”

Sollux, finding himself too close to the dog, runs a ways across the field before tossing it to Karkat, who curses about being throw the ball _again_.

“No, listen to me!” Jade reprimands. “I think it’s just trying to play—”

“Hey, _Strider!_ ” 

You look up, and across the field Karkat throws the ball to you. It’s almost slow motion, the way you watch the dog turn on a dime, how you step in front of John and Jade with your hands out, ready for the ball to fall back into them. It’s almost cinematic, and maybe it would be if you weren’t all narrowly avoiding death. 

When you catch it, time seems to catch up to speed again, and you run again. You’re hoping that this dog’s getting tired, but if anything, it only seems more amped up from running around. You can _actually_ feel it on your heels now. 

Quickly, you whip yourself around on your toes, trying to fake the beast out by running in a different direction, but you sorely underestimated how close it was to you. As soon as you turn, it pounces. It pounces, and it sends you to the ground with an embarrassing noise getting knocked out of your chest. 

“ _Dave!_ ”

This is where you say you saw your life flash before your eyes. Where you say “oh, there it goes, wow, look at all that sleeping, look at me fucking go—an entirely fruitful sixteen years courtesy of your’s truly and the coincidences of the entire cosmic universe”, but all you see is the dog’s wet nose as a big black blur in your vision. It pins you to the ground, a paw on your chest and on your shoulder, and it pants hot and _gross_ straight into your mouth. You actually turn your head away from it to breath in some of the infield dirt instead. 

_Well, this is it. I’m going to die in the dirt because of this fucking dog._

_Maybe I can still regain my dignity at my funeral. Like a nice seaside funeral with no dirt._

_And no dogs—_

Suddenly, the dog sticks its nose in your ear, and you jolt your head away from the dirt to stare at it again. Then, it licks your cheek, your forehead, where you can feel sweat beading up, before getting off you to nudge the ball still enclosed in your hand, outstretched by your side. It bows low into the dirt again to press its nose against the ball, tail wagging. 

“Uh,” you start. 

When it opens its mouth to try and take it away from you, you sit up, bringing your hand close to your chest. The dog jumps up from its bow in response.

“Hell no, this isn’t yours. Fuck off—”

Before the dog can protest, a sharp whistle rings across the field, and the dog turns its head on full alert. At first, you think it might be Jade, but you see her coming near you with John and the others. The dog then trots away, tail wagging slow, and you trail your eyes up to see the old man standing near the green fence. 

You sit there in the dirt, ball clutched to your chest, staring at the man and his dog. God, the dude looks ancient. From across the field you can see the shock of white hair, and you imagine you can see the veins in his hands as he runs his fingers through the dog’s fur. 

Really, you only realize that John is trying to grab your attention when he waves a hand in front of your face, at which point you look up at him and the others. 

“What?” you ask.

“Geez, Dave, I thought you went braindead for a second! Are you okay?”

He holds his hand out to you, and you grab it with your free hand. As he helps you to your feet, you nod. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Not dead, at least.”

“We thought you were going to be a goner,” Terezi says.

“Did it bite you?” Kanaya asks, and you shake your head in response.

“The most damage it did was give me a fuckin’ wet willy.”

You look back at the dog and the old man, still standing at the fence. The man looks as though he’s waiting for all of you, and from here you can’t tell if he’s going to chew you out for trespassing or accuse you of stealing his dog.

Slowly, you start to walk across the infield, lowering the ball back to your side. John reaches out to touch your arm, but pulls back. You look at him. 

“Uh,” he stammers, “do you think he’s gonna be mad?” 

You shrug.

“Maybe, but I also think he’s gonna keep standing there until one of us goes over and talks to him.”

He looks over at the man, then back at you, nodding. 

“Alright—I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to, man.”

“No—I literally jumped into his yard and basically lured his dog out here. He’ll probably ask, so.”

“Well, alright. Time for a death march?”

He grins, just for a moment, and the two of you start making your way across the sandlot. As you near the man and his dog, you clutch the ball tighter. The dog starts to get up from its sitting position, but the man looks down at it, making a noise to settle it. 

“Ah-ah, down, girl. Sit.”

And she does, though she still wags her tail through the tall grass as you get closer. 

When you and John stop before the man, you notice John stay back a few steps, clearly wary of the dog. You look at the man and open your mouth to speak, but he smiles, making his thick white moustache twitch. 

“Sorry about her,” he starts, patting the dog’s head, “she’s been quite rambunctious lately, looking for a good rip-roar. Hope she didn’t nip any of you.”

“Uh—it’s okay,” you say. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch John take a few, somewhat timid steps closer to the old man, but as the dog gets too excited again, the man looks down at her.

“Halley, old girl,” he says sternly, “you know better.”

From this warning, she settles again.

John looks uneasily at her before looking back at the man. 

“You’re English, right? Uh, sorry—Mr. English.”

At that, the man laughs, saying, “Oh, for flip’s sake…no need for formalities. But yes, I’m this English fellow you’ve heard of. Jake English.”

“Right. Uh, sorry about your dog. That she got over, I mean.” 

“Oh? Do you know how she got over here? I heard her making quite the ruckus—you kids screaming and that whole song and dance.” 

At that, John stammers for a moment. “Uh, well, I, uh.”

“We accidentally knocked our ball into your yard and were trying to get it back,” you elaborate. “I think she wanted to play.” 

“Ah…well, that would explain all the noise today.”

“We’re really sorry,” John says. The man chuckles.

“Well, no harm done. But really, you needn’t have gone through the trouble. You could have just knocked on the door, I would have gotten it for you.”

You turn your head quickly to look at John, and he looks back at you, a little meeker. You spare a glance over your shoulder at the group, now closer to you and John, and find them yelling over one another. 

“Are you _kidding me,_ Karkat!”

“‘Kill any kid that steps on his lawn’ my _ath!_ ”

“Ow, _hey_ , who fucking cares, we got the ball back, didn’t we?” 

“You almost got us _killed!_ ” 

English begins to laugh, scratchy yet hardy, and you and John look back at him. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Seems those rumors of me still haven’t found their way to the dad-blasted grave, eh?” 

John forces a laugh. You look down at the ball in your hand, twisting it a little between your fingers. English hums lightly.

“Is that what Halley was guarding?” he asks. 

“Yeah—it’s not really mine,” you say, looking back up at him. “I kind of stole it from my brother.”

“Well, that wasn’t very smart.”

You feel the tips of your ears burn at the remark. 

“Uh, yeah. I thought it was a different ball, but this one’s kind of signed, so.” 

“Ah, I see. It would probably do you some good to get that home to him then, wouldn’t it?” 

You nod slightly, looking back down at the ball. “Yeah.” 

“But!” He thunderclaps his hands together, which makes John jump beside you. “Before any of you run off, I do have a favor to ask.”

John looks at you warily for a moment. “Uh, sure,” he says. 

“Well, I hate to say it, but I’ve gotten too darn old to really give this girl the run-around that she needs. Which isn’t much—she’s a bit of an old coot herself, aren’t you, Halley?” 

The dog doesn’t respond, instead distracting herself with sniffing the ground. English continues.

“I know you kids play that game of yours out here, and I think ol’ Halley here’s been getting jealous. I’m sure all she needs is a half hour of chase and she’ll be happy as a clam the rest of the day.”

John hums in thought. 

“Does she bite?” he asks warily. 

“Oh, goodness, no. She can get a bit nippy if you play take-away for too long, but really she’s as sweet as an old girl can get.”

John thinks for a little while longer. He eyes Halley, who seems distracted with sniffing weeds, and crouches into the grass, holding a hand out to her. She notices it and stands to sniff his palm, then walks slowly along his arm until her head is practically over his shoulder. He pets her, a bit timid, but you notice him smile a little at the calm. 

“I think we can do that,” he says up to English. The old man smiles. 

“Jolly good, then. Suppose we’ll have to set up a rig in the fence so she can join you lot when she pleases, but that is for another day. For now, I think it’s best we head on home. Right, Halley?”

Halley steps out of John’s half-embrace to look back at English. When he beckons for her to come at his side again, she obeys, leaning up into his hand as he reaches for another pet. 

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” English says, parting the field with a smile to you and John before starting his slow walk back around to his old green home. Halley walks slow by his side, not sparing you or the sandlot another glance before leaving. 

You and John are silent for some time after English and his dog leave the sandlot. Eventually, John looks at you with a grin. 

“Well—I guess we’ve got another team member,” he says. 

You smirk lightly. “Guess the dog’s a pretty good replacement for center field.” 

He laughs, and you smile a little more genuinely at him. When you look down at the ball again, you hold it up between the two of you with your fingertips.

“Thanks again for getting this back. Really.” 

He smiles. “No problem. But, uh, do you need to go home? Is your brother still texting you?”

Oh, shit. You hadn’t even been thinking about that. Quickly, you whip your phone out of your back pocket, only to be met with a single text sent twenty minutes ago. 

RECEIVED: Come home.

It makes your heart sink. You shove the phone back into your pocket and sigh, lowering the ball back to your side. John reaches out and touches your free hand lightly with his fingers, causing you to look up at him. 

“It’ll be fine. I think,” he says. “Text me later to let me know you’re okay, okay?” 

You nod, replicating the gesture and knocking your knuckles gently against his. 

“Will do, Egbert.” 

He smiles, and you respond with a small, yet unsure smile yourself.

“Well,” you say, turning to face the hole in the fence behind center field, “guess I’ve gotta meet my maker, huh?”

“Good luck,” he says.

You nod, and you suck in a slow breath before wading through the tall grasses, through the hole in the fence, and out onto the street to make the slow trek back home.

\--

You feel a sense of dread seep into you, skin and bones and all, when you spot your brother’s red truck in the driveway. 

For a long time, you stand in front of the doorway on the stoop and make no move to go inside. You twist the ball in your hands. You rub the new dirt off on the white of your shirt for the fifth, sixth time. You even do those stupid deep breathing exercises to try and calm yourself. 

But, the truck looming in your peripherals alone makes your chest go tight. 

The house has been silent since you walked up to it; there wasn’t any indication that Bro was actually inside. Granted, he can be a quiet dude at times, but you have the feeling that he’s not just quietly jamming to some new mixes up in his room or whatever. Four texts in a row did not mean a placated, chill Bro. For all you know, he’s been hiding above the doorway for the last two and a half hours waiting for you to walk inside. 

You suppose you could just crash at John’s house, but you know that would only make things worse. The man didn’t like to be ignored. 

So, you suck in a big boy breath, channel your inner John to tell yourself you can do this, and reach out to open the door. 

Well, fling open, really, and jump back under the assumption that he might drop down on you upon entrance. Slowly, you inch yourself closer to the threshold, and you peer up into the doorway…

And find that he’s not there. You take a quick look-around, and he doesn’t seem to be anywhere. You close the front door behind you with your foot and walk further into the house. 

Lurking around like this, practically on your tiptoes, reminds you of how fucking horrible it feels to have your guard up. Baseball in hand (you can feel your damn knuckles going stiff, turning white), you make your way to the storage closet. The slight creak of the floorboards under your weight makes you look around and keep your ears peeled. 

By some miracle, you make it to the closet with absolutely no sign of Bro. Which, in retrospect, doesn’t make you feel that great. You _want_ to feel relieved, but you know he’s fully capable of hiding in absolute silence until the exact opportune moment. And considering he had tried so hard before to keep this space off-limits to you, you half-expect a sword to impale you just on touching the damn door. 

But, at this point, you just have to take your chances. You wipe the ball off on your shirt one last time before reaching to open the storage closet door. 

In a way, your expectations are reached—you jump back from the door on seeing Bro in the room already, and you think, _this is it, this is where I get my ass kicked, this is where I’ll experience the final moments of my short life._

However, as you realize he’s not moving from his spot, or even acknowledging your existence, you tentatively let your guard down a bit. What you didn’t expect to find was your brother crouched at the far end of the room, shades pushed up into his hair, looking down at that very last box beneath the little window with the blinds drawn. 

Even as you take a short step into the room, he doesn’t look up at you. You wonder if this is a new thing he’s doing, treating you like a ghost for reasons unknown to you, but when you take another step in he raises a hand to beckon you over. 

Christ, you hated when he acted like this. Total silence on his end usually spelled out c-o-n-t-e-m-p-t. Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice in the matter, and you carefully step around the other boxes and stand some feet away from him. 

And for some more time, he’s silent. He moves a couple of things around the box, maybe to make him look busy, until he asks,

“So why’re you in here?”

You open your mouth to respond, hoping for something witty or sarcastic to fall out of it, but nothing happens. You can’t respond right away, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? “Oh, nothing bro, just snooping,” or “I stole some shit from you out of this room that you obviously made off-limits, but I brought it back because I realized I fucked up?” 

He’s backed you into a corner, and he knows it. Crouched in front of the box of old memorabilia, he knows _exactly_ why you’re here.

So you stand there, gaping like an idiot for a moment in your struggle, before he simply holds his hand out. Your silence seems to have answered his question.

You look down at the ball in your hand, twisting it slightly under your fingertips, before reaching out to place it in his palm. He draws his arm close to him again, and, for a strange, quiet moment, he just looks at it.

Even though he’s your brother, and even though you’ve been living with him all your life, you sometimes forget how vibrant his eyes actually are. When he looks up at you, you get the rare chance to see his face in full. You think you used to be intimidated by it, but now you just realize how old he’s gotten.

“You plannin’ on taking any more of my shit?” he asks. Though his eyes don’t hold any anger (annoyance, maybe, “I need to put a padlock on this door,” maybe), his voice isn’t so direct like it usually is. He’s mastered the art of deadpanning, and you are but a misinformed child wandering the halls of the goddamn Louvre. But you suppose the exhibit’s closed for renovations today, because he actually just sounds downright weary. 

So you cross your arms, opting to lean your shoulder against the wall. 

“Guess not,” you respond. 

“Good. Because this,” he says, shaking the baseball lightly for emphasis, “isn’t mine. Which means it sure as shit wasn’t yours to take in the first place, and isn’t yours to take ever again.” 

When he looks down at the box again to place the ball back in its place, you feel your brows furrow. But you don’t ask—that’s not how this works. He stares down into the box quietly for some time, maybe contemplating explaining himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs slow and soft before closing the flaps of the box. As he stands, he slides his shades back over his eyes and brushes past you to exit the room. 

“We’ve got forms to fill out, kid,” he says as you follow him out. “School starts soon and the whole district’s board of ed. is gonna be up my ass if we don’t hand them over.”

You lean against the closet door until it clicks shut, but you stay there briefly before deciding to follow him into the living room. 

_The fuck does he mean the ball isn’t his_? 

When you peer around the corner into the living room, Bro has his back to you, shuffling through some papers in a large manila envelope. You lean against the entrance, watching him. 

This is not the Bro you expected after four texts in a row. Something is still off. 

As you stand there scrutinizing him (is he sick? Dying? Been replaced by some alien lookalike?) he says, without looking back at you,

“Are you going to come over here or not?” 

“Yeah, I’m just thinking.” 

“Well, that’s a change of pace.”

“I mean, I’m just wondering, if I stole the ball from you but the ball isn’t yours, then who’s driving the car, y’know?” 

“If you’re trying to justify taking it, that’s not gonna fly.”

“Nah, I fucked up, I get that. That’s not what I’m saying.”

His back still turned to you, you see a faint shake of his head, his shoulders dropping in a mute sigh. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. 

“Too late. The thought’s been embedded in my neurons. It’s trying to take over my motor functions as we speak. The more you avoid it, the more it multiplies until I’m fully possessed. Soon enough I’ll be haunting the town and wreaking havoc.”

He mumbles a “for fuck’s sake” under his breath before saying, “It’s not your business, lil’ man.”

“I just made it my business.”

He sighs—audible this time—and turns to sit on the couch, manila folder still in hand. He flips his hand up once to beckon you over, and you cautiously walk over to join him on the couch. 

“Look,” he starts, voice low, “I don’t want you going around in there. There’s nothing that you have to see.”

“Then what’s the big secret?” you ask. 

“There isn’t one. It’s just stuff that’s not for you.” 

You cross your arms to keep yourself from fidgeting with your hands. You can tell he’s not really looking at you.

“Okay, I get that. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that I’ve seen some of the shit in that one box in the back.” 

“Which you shouldn’t have.”

“But I did.” 

“For fuck’s sake.” 

“All’s I’m saying is that, now that I know the ball isn’t yours, the whole box probably isn’t yours. I’ve never seen you pick up a baseball in my life.”

He goes mum as he shifts his leg, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. 

“And,” you continue, “I saw the pictures. Well, not really, they were so goddamn dusty I didn’t really want to bother touching them, but I know those aren’t yours. You don’t _do_ pictures.” 

The silence from him continues. You’re not sure if you’ve backed him so far into a corner that he’s about to confess or has opted to stay silent on the matter, but you feel strangely confident seeing him not have an automatic response. 

Then, silently, he gets up, and you twist in your spot to watch him retreat back to the storage closet. There’s the faint rummaging of him shifting through things, then the click of the door closing behind him. When he returns, he drops one of the picture frames on your lap, still coated in thick dust.

“Jesus,” you mutter, wary to even touch it before you realize what he just gave you. “Wait, is this—”

“If you’re going to be on my ass about it, you might as well just find out for yourself.” 

You slide your fingers under the frame to tilt it up to you slightly. There are two distinct blobs hidden under the dust. As you move to thumb a streak of dust away, you hear Bro retreat to the back porch, shutting the back door behind him.

You start at the bottom of the photo with the smallest blob. Clearing the dust away, bottom to top, you reveal a child standing on the sand, wearing orange swim trunks, a white shirt, shades…

“Wait, bro, is this you?” you call. But you get no response. 

You stare at the boy, lanky yet short, smiling faintly and not looking at the camera. He looks ten. He’s looking at the undistinguished blob to his right.

Seeing a hand on the boy’s shoulder makes your stomach flip. 

Slowly, you thumb away the grime covering the other blob, but you find yourself stopping at his shoulders. He’s pointing at the camera with his free hand, probably to tell the boy to look at it, but it almost feels as if he’s pointing at you. 

And you sit with the picture like that for a while. Staring down at the last remaining muddle of color under the dust, feeling too much in your chest to uncover it. Your thumb hovers over it, and you pull it back. It hovers again, and you pull away again. 

It takes some time, but eventually you stand from the couch. Picture in hand, you slowly walk back to the storage closet, to the back of the room where the box sits, and place the frame back in beside the baseballs. You look at the uncovered man in the photo one more time before turning away and leaving. 

You try to expel the heaviness in your chest by leaning against the door and taking some slow breaths. You do this until you hear the back door slide open again, at which you stand and return to the living room. 

When you sit on the couch, he sits on the opposite end, quiet and smelling faintly of nicotine. You don’t mention it to him. He reaches at the coffee table to take the manila folder in hand again.

“Ready to fill this shit out?” he asks, turning slightly to look at you. You return the look, stagnant before nodding slightly.

“Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ finally. I was this close to just signing you up for Floral Design I and Concert Choir.”

Despite the heaviness still lingering in your chest, you scoff out a laugh, letting your smirk edge more into a smile. You reach out to punch his shoulder. He smirks faintly.

“Dick. At least sign me up for photography first.” 

\--

RECEIVED: hey! it’s been a while. uh...are you okay?

SENT: yeah man im fine

SENT: no worries 

RECEIVED: oh good!

RECEIVED: we all left and came back with our mitts and stuff. want to play ball?

SENT: hell yeah

SENT: ill grab my glove

RECEIVED: sweet! see you soon.

SENT: cya egbert

RECEIVED: <3

SENT: alright ill bite

SENT: <3

RECEIVED: hehe!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, if it's hard to tell......this is the last real chapter of play ball! but i'm not ready to say goodbye yet--there will be an epilogue soon enough. and _then_ i'll get mushy about ending this bad boy. 
> 
> thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com


	15. the end

RECEIVED: ALR1GHT D4V3

RECEIVED:  DON’T P4N1C BUT 1’V3 GOT VR1SK4 ON TH3 L1N3

SENT: why

SENT: so she can let me know that shes totally snooping on me and egbert again

SENT: man i thought i saw paparazzi flashes out the window earlier

SENT: sacre fuckin bleu

RECEIVED:  NO

RECEIVED: SH3’S GO1NG TO 4POLOG1Z3 DUMB4SS

SENT: well

SENT: shit

SENT: howd you wrangle that out of her

SENT: and why cant she just text me herself 

RECEIVED: B3C4US3 1 H4V3 4 N4TUR4L G1FT OF P3RSU4S1ON

RECEIVED: 4ND 1 M1GHT H4VE GOTT3N R1D OF H3R PHON3

SENT: should i ask why

RECEIVED: NO

SENT: how elusive

RECEIVED:  4NYW4YS!!

RECEIVED: H3R3 SH3 1S

SENT: oh boy

RECEIVED:  Hey.

\--

“Where the fuck even _is_ Vanderbilt?”

John glances away from the show playing on his laptop to the pamphlet pinched in your hand, his summer tan paled in the light’s blue hue. He shrugs half-heartedly. 

“Tennessee, I think.” 

“Jesus.”

He shoves another stack of chips in his mouth as you lounge back on your hands. Though the two of you had made room by pushing the new school supplies and dirty laundry under his keyboard, you still find yourself leaning back on the college brochures and leaflets that, you guess, he didn’t have the heart to get rid of. You thumb the Vanderbilt one briefly before sliding it away under your palm. 

“Like your dad could deal with you being across the fucking country.” 

He laughs shortly. As he stretches out his legs, he shoves some wayward books into the pile with his foot, making the keyboard stand sway and creak. “I know. I’m not applying, anyway.” 

You nod. The soft _pit-pangs_ of rain hitting the window give him some pause, and he cranes his neck to look outside, despite the night setting in some hours ago. You catch his eye as he looks away, more in question of what he expected to see, but instead of a response he turns back to his show with a palm coming up to cover his quick-setting grin. 

It’s dumb, but you find yourself smiling.

_Dork._

“Uh, what about...” You pat your hand around until you grab another pamphlet, crumpled under his bat pack, and laugh once you see the name. “Fucking _Stanford?_ ”

Quickly, his grin falls, and his hand slips under his glasses to cover his eyes. “Yeah, well, you know my dad...” he groans.

“He’s not fucking around with his high-standards shit. Could you even get _into_ Stanford?”

“Rude.” He drops his hand and looks at you, then at the pamphlet before snatching it from between your fingers. He squints at it in the low light. “I could probably get in on a scholarship. But I don’t think I’d want to go there, anyway.”

“It’s in Cali, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, Jade said she’s thinking about Berkeley for physics, so I guess we wouldn’t be too far, but, I dunno. It’s...” 

He gestures vaguely.

“Stanford?” you offer.

He tosses the pamphlet into the dark behind him.

“Yeah. Stanford.”

Your hand searches for more college leaflets, reaching under his dresser where you can feel the dulled edges and glossy pages of other printouts and pamphlets he’s abandoned, crumpled and stepped over the past few months. Dust and mystery crumbs roll under your fingers until you pull back.

“Got anywhere in mind?” you ask. When you reach over and swipe the grime over his arm, he pulls away, shooting a look that could chop your hand off if physically able.

“...Not really.” He reaches over and pauses the show, changing his position to sit cross-legged. “Dad still thinks I want to go to college for baseball, but, you know. I haven’t really broken the news to him.”

“About?”

“About trying something else, I guess.” 

“Well,” you start, matching his posture and reaching for the last of the chips, “you don’t really have to tell him, right?”

“It doesn’t take a super-genius to find out whether or not your kid’s on the team, Dave.”

Before you can say anything in return, he stands up, stretching his arms tall and popping his joints. “I’m gonna grab more snacks. I think my dad picked up some more stuff before he left.”

You pass the bowls up for him to refill, and he walks out, leaving you in the semi-circle of blue light. Thunder jostles the windowpanes as the storm finally rolls in over the outskirts of the suburb. John’s dad had warned you two of the incoming rain just before leaving for Seattle, pointing at the low-lying dark clouds in the distance as you followed him to his car. Even then, soft winds started to cool the tips of your ears. 

After warning John not to play ball for the day, and after delivering a dry smile when John quipped that he would swim in the lake instead, he fell into his usual going-away-on-business spiel: don’t wreck the house, remember to bring out the trash, and for the love of all that’s holy John tidy up your room. John had all but shoved him into the car and turned the key himself before his dad finally left with an “I love you,” “be back soon,” and “remember to check up on the Lalondes after the storm. They live awfully close to the lake.”

You two had waited until he was long out of sight before taking your gear down to the sandlot, getting a game in despite Halley pacing the lot and barking at the air. Once the first signs of the storm started riling up Pipe Lake, the field and the sound of crashing waves separated by a meager stretch of vine maples and bramble, everyone figured it was time to bail. Halley returned home through her new hole in the fence, and you and John legged it back to his house just as the wind picked up, making the cascara trees sway.

As thick rain starts pelting the roof, you look outside, watching the wind whip shadowy branches against the side of the house. Some leaves block your view as the storm plasters them to the window, and you briefly wonder if your brother has hunkered down at home yet.

And then your stomach rumbles, and your mind is quickly diverted to the Hot Cheetos John is taking forever to get. 

You figure he’s been downstairs for a while, so you stand, stretching your legs over the moat of junk lying on his floor to see what’s up. The steps creak on the way down, amplified in the stormy undertones, and you call out, 

“Egbert, my stomach’s getting all carnivorous in this bitch, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s taken over my nervous system.”

Silence. You round the banister, following the path of light coming from the kitchen.

“Stay quiet all you want, but it’s feastin’ time and it’s leading me straight to you—”

As you walk towards the kitchen, a distant _crack_ of thunder stills the noise of the storm. One moment you see John standing in the middle of the archway, the next, only his face illuminated by his phone. His worried brows quickly perk as he looks at the fully darkened room. 

“Oh, shit,” he says.

“Did we just lose power?”

You tiptoe the rest of the way, praying you don’t knock your hip into a stray chair while your eyes adjust. John rustles around in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers until you see the dim yellow circle of an old flashlight spread across the tile.

“Well, this sucks,” he says, testing another flashlight and handing it to you once you’re in arm’s reach. “We didn’t even get to watch any movies.” 

“What, you mean the _Alien_ series for the millionth time?”

“Just the first two, geez.”

His phone lights up in his hand, and he scowls once he glances at the message. When he sets down the flashlight to respond, you can almost see the texts in the reflection of his glasses. 

“Let me guess,” you say, “it’s your dad and his supersonic power-outage-sensing powers. He’s either a, making sure the house isn’t six feet under, or b, asking you to manhandle the powerlines yourself to get the lights back on.”

“What? No,” he says, shoving his phone into his back pocket. “It was probably a transformer that blew, anyway.” 

“Well, I don’t know who else could make you look that constipated with just a text.”

He waves you off, grabbing his flashlight and sidestepping past you. 

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Let’s find something to do – we’ll probably be out of power for a while.” 

\--

RECEIVED: Hey.

SENT: hey

SENT: just so you know

SENT: im totally sitting back on the front porch

SENT: lemonade in hand

SENT:  ready to hear the sweet sounds of apologizing emanating from my phone 

SENT: as washingtons soft breeze prepares me for this holy moment

RECEIVED:  Well I guess I failed in 8usting your mouth for the rest of your life. 

RECEIVED:  I’m assuming your face isn’t fucked up anymore.

SENT: it isnt

SENT: honestly you could run me over with a freight train and probably fail to damage this pristine set of looks handed down to me by god himself

SENT: not even because i need to look pretty and grace the world or whatever

SENT:  though thats a sweet bonus

SENT: but its probably just because he wants to spite you

RECEIVED: Wow. No need to get full of yourself.

RECEIVED:  I’m glad you’re not dead, I guess.

SENT: thanks

RECEIVED:  ........

SENT: ........

RECEIVED:  ................

SENT: ..................

RECEIVED:  ........................

SENT: fucks sake

RECEIVED: Ugh. 

RECEIVED: I’m sorry, alright???????? I’m sorry I 8roke your stupid face. 

SENT: yeah well 

SENT: its cool i guess

SENT: nothing these old cells couldnt handle

SENT: im the last person you need to apologize to anyway

\--

Though John’s laptop still lights a small portion of the room, he chooses to close its lid and place it on the relative safety his desk (relative, you think, even though it might slide off of its throne of laundry and empty water bottles at some point in the night). He grumbles about the thing’s shit battery life, and you look out the window to see the darkened streets of Maple Valley washed out by the sudden downpour. 

“This isn’t like some freak hurricane, is it?” you ask. 

“Huh? Oh, no,” John says, shoving things around his room in search for something. You watch the yellow circle of his flashlight bounce around in the window’s reflection. “We don’t really get hurricanes here, just some nasty storms.” 

“You’ve never gotten stuck in a hurricane?” 

“Have you?”

You turn to lean against his desk. When your flashlight finds him, he’s half submerged in his closet, reaching up to feel around its top shelf. “We usually get one or two a year in Houston.”

“What, that’s kind of crazy. Have you ever gotten flooded out?” 

“Please,” you start, flinching when something tumbles from his closet and crashes to the floor. He continues his search unfazed. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had to sit in a twenty-hour traffic jam during a mandatory evac, and the only thing your brother will play is the _Tarzan_ soundtrack because the radio won’t come through.” 

“Uh-huh.” He finally grabs what he was looking for—from the noise it makes, a board game—and looks at you. “I mean, Phil Collins isn’t the _worst._ ”

You hold a hand up to stop him.

“No, no, no. When you wake up in the middle of the night to the phantom lyrics of ‘Son of Man’ invading your personal and spiritual space, then come talk. As far as I can tell, Phil Collins might be Jesus in disguise trying to send me a message.”

“I mean, if Jesus ended up coming back to earth as a drummer, I don’t know if I’d be surprised. Seems like the guy would know how to jam!” 

He steps away from his closet and holds up the box, waggling it before carefully turning on his heel and stepping out of his room. “Let’s play downstairs. At least there’s candles and stuff in the living room.”

“Alright,” you start, following him out. “This room’s a fucking fire hazard.” 

“I mean, the snacks are also down there, but I _guess_ if you’re gonna be rude about it—”

“Sorry, Egbert, what I meant to say was that your room’s on par with the fucking Versailles gardens. The most coveted café in all of Germany. Rose’s fucking bathroom.”

He laughs, and you catch his smile in the dim beam of your flashlight. 

“That’s more like it.”

\--

RECEIVED: Actually, you were at the top of my list, which is made up of exaaaaaaaactly........one person.

RECEIVED: So my jo8 here is done.

SENT: nah im sure if you look at the bottom of that list

SENT: youll see ‘john egbert’ written in fine print

SENT: and then youll see the rest of the team in even finer print

RECEIVED:  Ughhhhhhhh.

SENT: i get it i get it youve maxed out your quota of one apology per millennium 

SENT: but your apology to me was just the tip of the iceberg

SENT: an iceberg floating in a very deep part of the Atlantic

SENT: and at the very bottom of the sea where all the bottom feeders and freaky fish lie

SENT: is the bottom of your list

RECEIVED:  8lah 8lah 8laaaaaaaahhhhhhhh I get it.

RECEIVED: I’ll talk to him l8er.

SENT: im counting on it

SENT: gonna be looking over his shoulder like a concerned father in the early 2000s letting his kid on the family computer

SENT: son is that porn 

SENT: no dad its just a virus 

RECEIVED: Well! Seeing as this conversation has 8een totally derailed, I’m going to get the fuck out of here. I have more important things to do than watch you blow up Terezi’s phone.

SENT: doubtful but ok

SENT: im watching you serket

RECEIVED: You wish.

RECEIVED: L8er.

\--

“Jesus, did you shuffle these at all? I got another epidemic card.”

“You just have a cursed hand, Dave.”

“You realize you’re the one that has to bippity-boppity-boop your ass around to heal everyone, right?”

“Because _you’re_ cursed. Not my fault if the whole world dies of the zombie plague.”

He says this looking down at his phone, tapping out another message and sighing at the low battery warning. Though he had seemed excited to play Pandemic again, you find that he’s spent more time with his head bowed over his phone than being your disease-fighting partner in crime. You wait for him to start his turn, but as he shines his flashlight on his cards, you ask, 

“So, who’s interrupting our game? ‘Cause we’re really trying to kill all these lil’ epidemics, but I feel like they’re killing the vibe.” 

He hums shortly and looks at you over the rim of his glasses. “Trust me, the vibe’s dead. Kind of like our entire planet. You realize we already hit eight outbreaks, right?”

“I was waiting to see if you’d notice.”

“Oh, heh. Sorry.”

He starts moving the pieces away from the board. As you collect and reshuffle the cards, he sighs, his phone going off again on the coffee table. 

“It’s Vriska,” he says. “Apparently Terezi put her in a vice or something and is making her apologize.”

“Oh yeah?” You set the cards down to look at him. “Took her long enough. She texted me like, a week ago.”

“Wait, seriously?” He stops his hand mid-sweep over the board and looks at you. “What did she say?”

“That she’s sorry for breaking my dumb face.” 

“And you believed her?” 

You shrug. “Not really, but I wasn’t expecting an apology in the first place. I told her she needed to say sorry to you, and she said she’d do it later.”

“And you _believed_ her?”

“Well, she’s doing it, isn’t she?” 

He sits back on his heels, planting his forearms on the table. The movement makes the row of candles around the game board flicker. 

“I mean, I _guess_. She said she wants to patch things up, at least to make school less awkward for everyone.” 

“Okay?” You sit cross-legged and rest an elbow on the table, chin in palm. “Seems reasonable.”

“Yeah, but I’m waiting for a catch. Like she’s going to want _me_ to apologize to _her_ before we can totally sweep this thing under the rug.” 

His phone goes off again, but before he can reach for it, you slap your free hand over it and pull it towards you. He looks at you as you toss it behind you onto the couch. 

“Hey—”

“Dude, you’ve been negotiating with her for over an hour. Did she apologize?”

“Well, _kind of_. She said she was sorry for starting shit and leaving the team.”

“Then deal with the rest later. Your phone’s almost dead anyway.” 

He huffs, but concedes, reaching to the side of the table to grab some snacks. It takes a moment, but he finally lets out a muffled “I _guess_ ” through a mouthful of chips.

You reset the game quietly. Outside, the wind passes over the house and through the trees, not so loud to whistle or whip the branches around anymore, and not so strong to make the storm come down in hard clashes against the windows. The rain hits something metallic on John’s front porch in uneven and overlapping taps. You can’t tell if he’s noticed it, but you try to guess the rhythm with your fingertips against the table. 

“Are you nervous about school?”

You look up, but John is looking out the window, his cheek pressed against the knuckles of his curled fist. A passing car illuminates the sheet of rain, and just as quickly leaves it dark again. 

“Not really,” you say, shifting to lean against the front of the couch. You stretch your legs under the coffee table and nudge his knee with your toes. “They finally sent me my schedule, so I can’t complain.”

“Yeah, only ‘cause you sent your stuff in so late.”

“That was Bro’s gross mishandling, not mine.”

He hums and shifts his gaze to you. 

“Uh, how’s he doing, anyway?”

You shrug. When John texted the day after getting the ball back wanting to know all the juicy details, all you had told him was that Bro wasn’t that mad about it, and that the sneak spar attack he handed you later really wasn’t a big deal. But that about covered it. You didn’t tell him that it wasn’t really Bro’s ball, or about the picture of your dad that had been hidden in storage for over a decade, or the fact that you’ve been too much of a coward to ask Bro more about him. 

You tell yourself that it’s easier not knowing, but it’s more because you feel like that can of worms is full of snakes instead. Neither of you have brought it up since. The past couple weeks have been mostly back to normal between you two, and you don’t want to disturb it again. 

“No idea,” you say. “I haven’t really seen him lately. You know how it is.”

John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that he’s a wack-job.”

“Nah, he’s just doing his thing.” 

“Right. Out being a wack-job.” 

He shifts again to fiddle with the game pieces, and you take the chance to kick his shin lightly with your heel. He juts out a leg to kick the side of your thigh. 

“Ouch, Jesus, dude.”

“ _So_ , speaking of college—”

“What the hell, man, that was like, _two hours_ ago—”

“—where do you think you wanna go?”

You squint at him, and he grins a little to himself, knowing that you hate when he does this. You move to kick him again, but he grabs your foot before you can land one on him. You wriggle it out of his grasp.

“I dunno, man. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I don’t even know what I wanna go for yet.” 

“Well, neither do I, but I’ve got _some_ ideas.” 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, but you’ve got Papa Egbert calling up every university in the known universe and getting their info.”

“Just the ones with good baseball teams! What if I wanna go for like, I dunno, _zoology_ or something?”

“What I’m saying is I have no idea if Bro is even _that_ concerned about me figuring out where I wanna go right away. He’s never mentioned it before.”

“Well…” He pauses, opting to lean back on his hands. “You don’t _have_ to go to college right after school.”

“I know.”

“You could join a garage band in Portland!”

“Nah, I don’t think it’s my scene.” 

He laughs, and though you smile a little, you feel a small ache in your chest.

“I mean...to be real, I was thinking of maybe hopping back to Houston for a bit. Like, depending on where everyone ends up.”

“Wait, seriously?”

He looks at you, brows perked. You suddenly feel a little shy.

“Yeah, you know. I kind of miss the old stomping grounds.”

“Well, yeah, you basically just moved from there.” 

You shrug, and he hums a little. 

“I mean, it just depends, you know?” You try to calm your voice to hide your nerves, but you can see his shoulders dropping in the candlelight. “See where everyone scatters to, and see if I still miss the place in a few years. It’s no big.” 

“Geez. Do you think everyone’s going to go very far after school’s over? Like, we’re going to be totally split up?”

He looks sullen at the thought. Gently, you nudge his leg again with your toes. 

“Dude, hey.” 

He looks at you. 

“We don’t have to worry about it yet,” you say. “We’ve still got two years left. And...” 

The back of your neck is flushed when you reach back to lie your hand on it.

“I mean, maybe we’ll find a place to crash together once things get rolling. Depending on how things work out, you know? You do your dorm thing, maybe become everyone’s favorite RA or whatever, and then...”

You gesture emptily with your other hand, trying to find the words, but he stops you with a smile. Slowly, he sits up closer to the table, and reaches a hand across the discarded board game in an attempt to reach you. 

When you meet his fingers with yours, you realize how quiet the rain’s gotten. 

“Sounds like a plan,” he says.

You grin lightly.

“Cool.”

You hold his fingers against yours for a moment, listening to the wind die off as John links his pinky with yours languidly. 

“What about you?” you ask. “Are you ready for school to start?”

“Fuck no,” he breathes. “This summer has been pretty great. I don’t want it to end yet.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I’m also just, you know. Nervous. About us, I mean.”

You meet his eyes, and he quickly sits pin straight, letting go of your hand to raise his in defense.

“I mean, not like that! It’s just that…the only people who know are our friends, and I figure other people are gonna find out _eventually_ , you know? And I don’t know how they’re gonna react.”

You rest your hand on your thigh. “Am I gonna kill your reputation, Egbert?”

“No!”

“I was joking—I didn’t think you had one.”

He scoffs in mock hurt, but underneath it you can hear his nerves. You nudge yourself a little closer to the table to take his hand again. The candles warm your skin, the flame flickering with your movement. 

“Dude, relax. No one even knows who I am there, except for you and the gang. We’ll just feel things out, yeah? Don’t have to get all PDA up in each other’s shit or anything.”

“Eugh, I hate that anyway.”

“Oh come on, some slobber on your neck before English? That’s grade A class.”

He laughs. You feel the tension leave his hand, and he grips yours. _Thanks_ , it seems to say. 

You squeeze back. _No problem_. 

[Outside, the earth suddenly seems still.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2r5NxXHiBc) Rain drips from the gutter, from the leaves, slow and careful. The frogs croak as they leave the shelter of the hedges, chittering to one another as they move away from the house. John looks outside again, just as the sweep of another car’s headlights briefly lighten the room.

“Sounds like the storm’s finally over,” he says. 

He stands, letting go of your hand to make his way to the window. Cupping his hands to block out the reflection of the candles, he peers outside, trying to make sense of the dark.

You get up to stand by him, doing the same. 

Though the street’s power is out, the clouds have moved far enough away to reveal the moon. It shines on the thick puddles that have flattened the lawn, the potholes turned to ponds, the heavy streams of rainwater rushing to the gutters. A draft in the window lets in the chill of the post-storm. 

The two of you pull back, placing your hands on the windowsill. John nudges your shoulder with his, and you look at him.

“Wanna play ball tomorrow?” he asks. “The field might be kind of flooded, but it’d be the last game before school starts.”

“Another tradition?” you ask.

“Kind of. And who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky and finally hit the ball.”

“Fuckin’ harsh, dude.”

He grins at you with a laugh, clapping his hand over yours. Still, you smile, nudging him back and twisting your hand under his to hold it again. 

“Yeah, man,” you say. He squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a wrap, folks!! :'-) sorry it took so long to finish this, but we did it. we climbed the whole mountain.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!
> 
> -abby
> 
> (hmu @ puckspace.tumblr.com)


End file.
